


Come Together

by thequibblah



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, F/M, First War with Voldemort, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Minor Character Death, Multi, POV Multiple, Slow Burn, Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), plus diversity of race and sexuality!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:02:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 371,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22187539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequibblah/pseuds/thequibblah
Summary: It’s difficult to say when James and Lily took the first steps to love. Perhaps it was in April, 1977, shaken by tragedy. Perhaps it was all the way in September, 1971, when they met on a train. Perhaps they had always been walking this road, unaware of the person they were walking towards until the mist cleared. They would fall in love eventually — but we would be remiss in ignoring the hiccups along the way.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black & Remus Lupin & Peter Pettigrew & James Potter
Comments: 665
Kudos: 409





	1. This Time Will Be Different

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lily greets two boys she'd rather not see, and one she would. The Marauders have tricks up their sleeve. James wants a fresh start; so do Lily's friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Section break icons by Freepik from Flaticon.

_i. Summer Means New Love_

The Scottish air was still thick with summer, but as students swarmed Hogsmeade station Lily Evans could detect the slightest hint of crispness in the air. She smiled and breathed in deep. It was a comforting reminder. Last year had ended as badly it had, but months of warmth had passed, and the cold had returned, and she had grown. Things would be better. With this in mind, Lily waved her friends on. She had only one of these walks left, after all, after this year. Crossing her arms over her chest, she let the sounds of greetings and how-are-yous wash over her, and the crowd carried her towards the carriages.

This happy bubble didn’t last long, of course. Lily heard him before she saw him, pushing through students to fall in step with her. She kept her eyes trained ahead of her, fisting her hands so they would not tremble.

“Lily,” he said, a plea in the single word.

 _I will not be cross_ , she told herself. _It’s September first and I’m happy to be back at Hogwarts and he will_ not _ruin that for me_.

“What,” she said, more brusquely than she’d intended to. Drat; she darted a glance at her companion.

Severus Snape’s face had fallen at her tone. “You’re...still angry.”

If she had felt any remorse at his expression, it blinked away at that. “Seriously? Of course I’m still angry. I was too angry to want to talk to you in June, _or_ at any point over the summer, _or_ now. Would you like a signed declaration?”

His jaw clenched; she could see him preparing for an argument. This was the problem with her and Sev — he was far too defensive to be really, truly sorry. And if he wasn’t really, truly sorry, what were they even talking for?

“I can’t believe you’re letting… _that_ …get in the way of our friendship,” Severus was saying. “We’ve known each other years—”

“And, pray tell, what would ‘that’ be?” Lily’s leisurely pace had turned frantic, but there was only so far she could walk. Eventually they would arrive at the carriages, and the last thing she wanted was to spend the ride up to the castle trying to deflect her former best friend’s arguments. Lily cared a great deal about the beginnings of things, and this was decidedly _not_ a good start to her sixth year. 

Severus scowled. “You know. The — the lake, Potter—”

Lily stopped short and faced him. He was taller than her now — had been for a year — and it was disconcerting. She did not allow herself to think about the Great Lake.

“For the last time, Severus,” she said, “this was never about him. Just — don’t come near me until you get that into your head, all right?” 

He opened his mouth to retort, but she cut him off with a sharp “ _No_.” 

Thankfully, she caught sight of a friendly face over his shoulder; before Severus could come up with anything else to say, Lily fled. She didn’t want to run — she wanted the argument to be put to bed, once and for all. But she knew her friend too well to expect that. _Breathe, breathe, breathe_. She counted to ten in her head, and with her last remaining shred of optimism, summoned up a broad smile.

This was the face she wore when she called out to Dex Fortescue, who was waiting by a carriage with a bunch of other seventh-years. Lily’s smile grew genuine at the sight of his goofy grin. A Hufflepuff seventh-year, Dex had freckled skin, sandy blond hair, and a flattering habit of complimenting her until she blushed. Yes, there was much to like about Dex — and Lily liked him very much.

“Lily!” he said, stepping away from his friends as she approached. “You’re looking gorgeous as ever, of course.”

“Oh, stop it.” She could feel her cheeks growing hot. 

A sudden panic joined the butterflies in her stomach — how was she supposed to say hello? Wave at a respectable three-foot distance? Oh, God, if she didn’t think of something soon, she was going to stick out her hand for him to shake and there would be no recovering from that, not least because it was a Muggle gesture… To her immense relief, Dex pulled her into a warm, tight hug. 

“It really is good to see you,” he said, his breath tickling her ear. 

“You too,” she said, a little breathless at the combination of his smile, his voice, his arms around her — _focus, Lily, he’s_ talking _to you_ —

“Unfortunately, I don’t have any ice cream for you,” said Dex.

“What a shame. I was obviously only ever using you for the family shop.”

He rolled his eyes, still grinning. “Let me make it up to you. Look...” He sobered, looking away for a moment. Lily was surprised to see him square his shoulders and meet her gaze so gravely — and, if she were being honest, a little endeared. 

“I don’t want to…dive into things, or scare you off or anything, but I liked where we were in August and… I suppose I’m trying to say I’d like to keep seeing you. And I’d like you to be my girlfriend.”

There was a small pause in the conversation. Lily wasn’t sure if she was supposed to fill it. But Dex hurried on.

“We don’t have to be around each other all the time and kiss goodnight and whatever. We can just be together like this summer — except now you’ll have something to call me other than—” He waved a hand.

“Ice cream boy,” Lily supplied, grinning. This was just the sweetener she needed. “Of course, Dex. Of course I want to keep seeing you.”

He rocked back on his heels, visibly relieved. “Great. _Great._ ”

“But I might still call you ‘ice cream boy.’” She took his hand and squeezed it.

He cocked his head, pretending to consider this. “I suppose I’ll make an allowance for you.”

Stepping closer, Lily said, “And I do rather like goodnight kisses.” She felt a lick of delight at how his eyes widened. _How novel, to have a visible effect on boys_ , she thought. This explained a lot about some of her friends. 

“Oh, I suppose I can make an allowance about that too,” murmured Dex, meeting her halfway. Lily’s hands made their way to his shoulders and she leaned into him and—

“You coming, Dex?” a voice said amidst hoots and cheers. Dex and Lily separated; she saw that his friends had piled into a carriage behind them, and had a prime view of the couple. 

“Shut up, you lot,” Dex told them. “Want to join, Lily?”

She considered the nearly-full carriage and his own sweet, stumbling proposition. No, she had plenty of time to meet all his friends, and right after they had made things official might be rather too soon. 

“You go ahead. I’ll find the other Gryffindors.”

“If you’re sure…”

“Sure as eggs.”

He burst into laughter, shaking his head. “Whatever you say.”

As he stepped away, Lily pulled him back to her for another brief kiss, to great _ooh_ ing from the seventh years. She was still wearing her sauciest smile when she walked away to find a carriage of her own. 

Perhaps the beginning had been less than auspicious, but things _had_ got better, as she’d promised herself they would. The spring in her step returned, and Lily fortuitously spotted a boy and a girl in red-and-gold ties already seated in a carriage — both sixth-year Gryffindors. 

“Lily! Come sit with us!” Sara Shafiq was waving madly at her, leaning across an alarmed Remus Lupin. The rest of the waiting area had grown rather empty since Lily had left Severus. She scanned the remaining students to make sure her friends weren’t waiting for her, then joined Sara and Remus. The former gave her a hug; the latter, a warm smile. 

Remus looked worse than usual, Lily noted. He was sick often, and it seemed as though he was close to another bout. Or perhaps it was all relative. Next to Sara, who was tall and willowy and had flawless bronze skin, healthier people than Remus Lupin would have looked wan.

“Had a good summer, Lily?” said Remus.

She made a face before she could stop herself, which made the other two laugh. “So-so. My sister’s seeing this bloke who's got to be the most insufferable man in England.”

“Can he be all that bad?”

“I believe it,” Sara said darkly. “My sister got married a few years ago and _he’s_ great, but before that she dated absolute pond scum. It’s infuriating.”

Amusement shone in Remus’s eyes. “I’m sure it is.” 

Sara patted his hand before turning back to Lily. “I’m sure your summer can’t have been all doom and gloom. We saw you with that cute Hufflepuff — what’s his name? Fortescue? Give us all the news!” She lowered her voice, but her excitement was obvious. Remus, meanwhile, looked like he very much wanted to be excluded from the _we_ she spoke of.

“Dex,” said Lily, returning Sara’s smile. “Yes, we did meet over the summer. The one bright spot, I reckon. Dorcas was dragging me to Diagon Alley so often, and he was working in his uncle’s ice cream parlour — you know the one—”

Lily had so often listened to her friends gush over their boys with the air of a wise spinster, rather the Charlotte Lucas. She found that she sounded exactly like them now — but she didn’t mind this pink-cheeked girlishness. She would have to retell this recent update for her friends tonight...but that was all right. And certainly Sara wouldn’t mind hearing it once more. Things were getting better, she reminded herself.

“—and, well, he asked me to be his girlfriend,” she finished, unable to swallow her smile.

Sara clasped her hands together and sighed. “Oh, how adorable! I do love the tender first few weeks of a relationship.”

“First few minutes, actually. He only just asked me.”

Sara looked as though she was about to implode. But before she — or Remus, whose polite interest now had an edge of desperation — could react, another person practically dove into the carriage beside Lily, and the wheels began to creak forward.

“My heartfelt congratulations,” said James Potter, leaning back and pushing the unruly dark curls from his forehead. 

Was he being sarcastic? Unsure, Lily held her tongue. Sometimes it was better to stay silent around James Potter — a reminder she often disregarded, to considerable woe — and she figured this was one of those times. The incident by the lake loomed large in her mind; she quashed it down and sat a little straighter.

Sara’s lips were pursed in disapproval. “Was that kind of entrance necessary, James?”

The beginnings of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Obviously, Sara. A new year needs must begin with a bang.” He surveyed the other occupants of the carriage. “Moony. Evans. Hello.”

Rather than simply saying hello back, Lily found herself saying, “ _Needs must?_ ”

James turned to her, meeting her gaze. “Yeah, and? You have a monopoly on pretty phrases in the English language or something?”

She fought back a glare. “No, I was just surprised. You sounded like you learned to read over the summer. I should be congratulating you.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” began Remus, but James cut him off.

“I can’t read, of course. What gave you that impression? I had to practice my usage of ‘needs must’ all through the holidays.” And then he folded his arms behind his head and stared determinedly at the darkening sky. 

An awkward silence fell. Lily couldn’t think how to respond; he had spoken so flatly, she couldn’t have said if they were arguing or joking. She wanted to consider this a victory, but he had had the last word. James bloody Potter.

“ _Speaking_ of the holidays,” Sara said, clearly trying to salvage the conversation, “what did you do, James?”

At this, James showed the first sign of genuine interest. “Mum and I visited family in India. Got to see all the cousins, so that was nice.”

“Oh, how lovely! Give my regards to your mum...and your dad. Does he — did he not come with you both?” Sara seemed torn between the desire to know and the possibility that this was a sore subject; Lily stifled a smile.

James grinned. “Merlin, Sara, you sound like a high society matron. Yes, Dad came with us for some of the holiday — he wanted to see these caves, you know, interesting magical stuff. But Mum’s family overwhelms him sometimes. Poor bloke, can’t blame him.”

Lily tried to imagine a slew of loud, troublemaking Jameses, and found that she quite sympathised.

“Don’t tease me, I was just _asking_ … Where in India are your family from?” 

Lily felt odd listening in but Remus was diagonally across from her, and she doubted they would be able to have a conversation over Sara and James, the latter of whom had begun to gesture wildly as he talked. Remus met her gaze and rolled his eyes, smiling. 

“How was your summer?” she mouthed.

“Fine. Quiet,” he mouthed back. “No arseholes dating my sister.”

Lily let out a snort of laughter. “And the other two?” She gestured between Remus and James.

A hint of guardedness flickered into her friend’s normally serene expression. “Up at the castle, I suppose…”

Two Marauders were the last to leave, and two Marauders were ensconced in the castle already? So they were planning something. Lily thought back to last year’s Welcoming Feast, at which bats had chased the Slytherins out of the Great Hall, and shuddered. 

“What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” Remus mouthed unconvincingly.

Lily raised a warning finger, only half in jest. Remus gave her a pleading look. The sensible side of her knew there was no point getting up in arms about their pranks. He was a prefect, just the same as she was, after all, and he participated. Besides, an argument with Remus, here and now, would inevitably involve Potter, and Lily had had enough contention for one day. 

“As long as it isn’t bats,” she said aloud. 

“Bats?” Sara repeated, looking between Lily and Remus in confusion. 

In mock concern, James said, “Talking to yourself, Evans?”

“Don’t you start, James Potter,” Sara said, swatting him. 

“He started long ago,” said Lily dryly. They had pulled up to the castle; Lily resisted the urge to watch Potter’s reaction to her words, and instead studied Hogwarts’s facade. The familiar squeeze of homecoming seized her. 

But James chose not to respond. “Needs must be off,” he said, hopping out of the carriage before it had stopped and striding away.

“Idiot boy,” Sara said, vocalising Lily’s thoughts exactly.

The three Gryffindors made their way into the Entrance Hall along with the last trickle of arriving students. Only a handful hovered in the antechamber; still thinking of the Marauders, Lily did not pay them much heed. Sara said goodbye and hurried to join her friends at the table, leaving Lily alone with Remus.

“See you later,” Remus said, avoiding meeting her eyes.

“Seriously, what _are_ you up to?” Lily blurted out. _So much for not getting up in arms_ , she berated herself. 

Remus sighed. “You wouldn’t be happier knowing.” 

_But I would!_ She bit back the words. If she wanted to finish this year with her sanity intact, she needed to let their stupid pranks pass her by…and yet. 

Her friend gave her a wave and walked off. She stood there in the cavernous hall, alone, uncertain. Somewhere between Dex and now, her regained carefreeness had been knocked off-kilter. And she didn’t want to point fingers, but it was usually because of… 

“If you’re done being nosy, your dearest, most patientest friends would like to eat,” a high voice trilled.

“Oh— you waited—” Lily swivelled around to look at the girls by the entrance to the Great Hall.

“Damn right we waited!” said the tall Asian girl who had spoken, tossing her glossy ponytail. Mary Macdonald’s leggy, boyish frame gave her an athletic look belied by her vivid blue eyeshadow and pearly-pink lips — and the fact that Lily knew she didn’t have a single sporty bone in her body. “Hurry up, Dorcas is saving our seats.”

“Be _nice_ ,” said Germaine King, the other witch and the _actual_ athlete of their friend group, whose pale blonde head just about came to Mary’s shoulder. Despite the look she shot Mary, Germaine grabbed Lily’s elbow and steered her into the Great Hall. 

Neither Germaine nor Mary were in the mood to indulge Lily’s impulse to stop and take in the dining hall’s high arches — “you’ll see it every bloody day!” — and so they made their way to the middle of the table, where Dorcas Walker, a dark-skinned, pretty witch, had already carved out a spot for the four of them. 

“Finally!” Doe huffed, scooting down so Lily could plop down next to her. 

“There’s plenty of space!” Lily protested, which was true; she could not see the sixth-year boys anywhere, which explained the unclaimed seats. Doe, in the middle of tying up her long curls, only shrugged.

“Did you find Dex?” Germaine wanted to know. 

The memory of the whole thing — Dex’s embrace, the heat of his mouth — made Lily blush. “Yes, I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Oh, _will_ you,” Mary teased from across the table.

“This year is going to be a year of change,” Germaine said, tucking her short curls behind her ears. “Thank you for going along with the plan, Lil.”

“Really? What’s your change, then?” Doe said.. 

Germaine held up her hands as if to say _wait for it_. “Henceforth I will be going by... _Gemma_.”

The girls looked at one another for a beat. Then Lily, Doe, and Mary burst into laughter.

“Gemma? _Gemma_?”

Germaine folded her arms over her chest, frowning. “I thought it sounded quite good!”

“Who’s this Gemma? Have I met her?” Sirius Black slid onto the bench next to Germaine; the other Marauders joined him. They were all slightly out of breath, Lily noticed. James had his hands in his pockets and did not look at her.

“ _I’m_ Gemma,” said Germaine crossly. “I’m trying to get people to call me that.”

“We don’t mean to make fun,” said Doe, trying unsuccessfully to hide her smile. “It’s just — you’re so not a Gemma.”

“Walker’s right, Germy,” James cut in.

“Potter, I swear, I’ll take that smile right off your face—”

“Only if you can reach it—”

“ _I_ ,” Mary said loudly, interrupting this argument, “plan on having a tragic, doomed love affair. It will be terrifically heart-wrenching.”

Doe snorted. “Likely.”

“I’m choosing to ignore that comment, _Dork-ass_. But just so you all know—” this, directed at the boys “—I am accepting candidates for my love interest in this affair. Oh, not one of you, of course. Just in case you know someone.”

“Of course,” Sirius said, rolling his eyes.

Mary surveyed the students critically. “I think I might go for Crollins, you know.”

“ _Crollins_?” James repeated. “Have you heard of taste?”

“It’s weird that you’ll call him that, but you won’t call me Gemma,” said Germaine.

“He doesn’t want to be called Crollins.”

“Yeah, not a very flattering comparison, Germaine.”

Lily followed James’s sceptical gaze, currently fixed on Colin Rollins. He was Head Boy this year, and a Hufflepuff like Dex, but was not one of Dex’s group. Which, in Lily’s opinion, was a mark in Dex’s favour; she had not enjoyed prefect meetings with the boy last year.

“Cute he may be,” Dorcas said, “but you can’t deny he’s a bit of a git.”

“He is, bless him,” said Mary fondly. “But he’s a cracking good kisser.”

* * *

  
_ii. Sweetheart, Darling, Pumpkin Pie_

In short order, the first-years were sorted and the feasting began. 

“A woman teaching us Defence Against the Dark Arts! I can’t bloody wait,” Doe said every ten minutes or so; the fifth-year on her other side was beginning to glare at her. The professor in question, whom Dumbledore had introduced as Aprylline Thorpe, sat next to a beaming Slughorn, who seemed to be pelting her with questions. 

“She’ll have to survive dear Sluggy first,” said Germaine.

“I’m surprised Dumbledore said so little,” Mary said, reaching for the roast chicken. “I mean, people are disappearing and everything…” 

Lily shifted in her seat. She and Mary, the only two Muggle-born Gryffindors in their year, had followed the news with worry all summer. They'd spoken on the telephone after breakfast every morning to dissect the latest _Prophet_ headlines. Hogwarts seemed such a world away from the rest of wizarding Britain…but she had to grow used to the fact that it wasn’t, of course, no matter what it felt like. Without meaning to, Lily glanced over at the Slytherin table, spotting Severus’s dark head next to gangly, fair-haired Anthony Avery, and permanently-scowling Thalia Greengrass. Cassius Mulciber was by Thalia; when Lily looked at him, he met her gaze. Flinching, she turned back to the table.

“Pass me the chicken,” she said hoarsely.

But when Mary tried to hand her the dish, it eluded her grasp — by suddenly floating into the air.

“What in Merlin’s name—” The girls were so surprised by this development that by the time Dorcas had whipped out her wand to try and summon the dish back, it was a good ten feet above them. 

“Oh, bring it _back_ ,” Mary said, annoyed.

“What do you want me to do, shout ‘ _Accio_ roast chicken’ and be bombarded by every plate of it in the hall?” retorted Doe.

All around them, dishes were rising into the air — not the entire spread laid out on the tables, but a considerable amount of food nonetheless. 

Lily turned to the Marauders. Was that a scrap of parchment Remus was hastily tucking away? 

“What exactly do you hope to achieve with this?” She didn’t _mean_ to sound so peeved. But it was difficult not to feel confused and annoyed and frustrated around the boys...primarily frustrated, of course. 

“Well, you can never have too much food,” said Peter with a grin.

“Who says we’re doing anything?” Sirius said. The jug of pumpkin juice he was holding jerked out of his hand, which made him startle and scowl. “Ah, shit. Can someone give me more pumpkin juice?”

“But — what’s the point?” said Lily, struggling to keep the impatience from her voice. “You’re just…stealing the feast’s food?” 

James shrugged. “Is it _hurting_ you, Evans?” he drawled. 

After how relatively bearable he had been in the carriage, Lily was genuinely taken aback by the scorn in his voice. She glared. All James did was quirk an eyebrow at her, underscoring his question.

“Oh, shut up, Potter,” she snapped.

As if to punctuate her words, the missing food was suddenly replaced on the table — a new roast chicken, a new pumpkin juice jug. The floating food was out of sight.

“God bless the house-elves,” Sirius said happily, grabbing the jug. 

James was once again looking pointedly away from Lily. She angled herself away from the Marauders, seething. _It’s such a little thing_ , she told herself, _and you’re overreacting. Let it_ go _._ If only they — or just he? — didn’t get under her skin so effectively. She didn’t want to be the shrill, prim prefect all the time, but they — certainly he! — made her that way. _Let it go_.

The incident recurred when the main course vanished and dessert appeared: plates of treacle tart and gateau took flight, and new versions took their place. 

“Ugh, this cake isn’t as moist,” said Germaine, poking at the new dessert. Her words prompted sniggers from the fifth-years beside them — and the Marauders. Germaine rolled her eyes. “It’s _cake_ , you dirty pervs.”

“Okay, Germy,” Sirius quipped. Germaine tossed her napkin at him.

“First-year Gryffindors, you can follow us!”

Lily gave Remus a look. He preferred to leave the calling, shouting, and general voice-raising to her in their prefect duties — but he was decidedly in a hurry tonight. 

“Something wrong? Something going to _happen_?” said Lily sweetly.

“Ha ha. Please don’t start, Lily.”

She waved goodbye to Dorcas and Germaine — Mary had skipped away at the first chance to catch up with Crollins. 

“He’ll be dealing with Head Boy things,” Germaine had pointed out to her.

“Honestly! I’m not going to ask him to _take_ me right there in the Entrance Hall,” Mary had said, rolling her eyes. “I’m only saying hello.”

The seventh-year prefects seemed only too glad to let Remus and Lily take the lead. There were about ten new Gryffindors, wide-eyed and small. The sight of them made Lily forget Remus’s haste for a moment. Her heart swelled; the wonder in their faces was another reminder that she only had two years of this herself. With Remus at the head of their little group, they made their way out of the Great Hall. A curly-haired girl fell into step with Lily, giving her a toothy smile. 

“Hello,” Lily said. “What’s your name?”

“Margaret,” said the girl, “and I’m going to win Gryffindor the House Cup!”

So it was that Lily was busy smothering laughter at this eleven-year-old’s absolute earnestness when _it began_. First, a plate of mashed potatoes blinked into existence and tipped its contents onto a group of Slytherins. The ensuing string of swearing came from Avery and Mulciber, who — in the immediate horror of being covered in food — forgot to reach for their wands. Lily saw Severus, potato-splattered and scowling, cleaning his robes with a spell. Just as they were all clean, the Yorkshire pudding landed. A gravy boat came for a terrified Bertram Aubrey. 

Lily could not see Mary and Colin Rollins, but she would hear the story later, many, many times. Mary, who was leaning close to the boy and engrossed in her work of seduction, did not notice the wobbling chocolate cake whizzing his way. Crollins did, and wisely ducked. So the cake splattered all over Mary Macdonald’s perfectly made-up face — really, it was the only time she’d ever regret her height — and slid, cold and creamy, onto her white uniform blouse.

“James-Sirius-Remus-Peter I’m going to _kill you_!” she shrieked.

And like summer rain finally bursting from the skies, the whole load of vanished food began to fall on the assembled students. 

Of course, the chaos was immediate. People tried to push through to the safety of the staircase or the Great Hall; Remus, Lily, and the first-years were trapped amidst the frenzied press. Remus cast a Shield Charm over them, but the food was only half the problem.

“Heaven bloody fucking help us—” Lily said without thinking. Margaret looked positively gleeful.

“Cor, Hogwarts is even better than I thought!”

* * *

_iii. With A Little Help From My Friends_

Several hours earlier, when most students were strolling from the station to the carriages, Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew were far ahead of them. The two had been the first off the train, heading for an alleyway where they changed into their Animagus forms. Thereafter, the shaggy black dog — by now a familiar sight to some Hogsmeade residents, who tossed him food every now and then — and the unnoticed rat made their way to Honeydukes and slipped into the cellar. 

Once in the tunnel to Hogwarts, Peter paused to control a brief sneezing fit. “I prefer Gregory the Smarmy’s route. Gunhilda’s passage is far too dusty.”

“Time is of the essence,” said Sirius. “This one’s faster.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Speed didn’t seem to matter when you let that old drunk scratch you.”

“Old drunk? Wormtail, that was a kind old man—”

“—who was stumbling out of the Hog’s Head, yeah—”

“Hey, it’s past five o’clock—”

They continued to bicker lightly, in the way of friends happy to be reunited and on home turf once more, until they arrived at the castle end of the passageway. Sirius made to cast the exit spell.

“Wait, what if someone’s on the other side?” said Peter, grabbing his arm.

Sirius shook him off. “Then check the _map_ , what’re you waiting for?” 

As Peter fumbled for the thing, they silently reveled in the pure magic of that sentence. Oh, to be sure, both Peter and Sirius had grown up with magic, the sort they had spent five years at Hogwarts studying and pretending to study. But the map was the marker of a different kind of magic entirely. Neither Sirius nor Peter — nor even the other two — would have admitted this on an ordinary day, but they all knew it, on some deeper level that teenage boys were all too happy to ignore. 

The actual spellwork of the map had taken just about all of their fifth year, the exploration and mapping having been accomplished in pranks and expeditions beforehand. They had spent the summer fine-tuning it, a task complicated by James’s departure for India in the middle of their holidays. James was the most skilled at Charms of the friends; the others spent weeks swearing at the parchment when its Homunculus Charm malfunctioned. (Once, it had shown dozens of Filches roaming the otherwise empty halls. The Marauders had shuddered at the image.) 

What’s worse, in James’s absence the Marauders’ natural meeting place, the Potters’ enormous estate, seemed no longer an option. The Black family mansion was out of the question. Both Remus and Peter had rather less indulgent parents. After weeks of Remus’s hand-wringing, Peter’s passive-aggressive comments, and Sirius’s complaining, James had told them to _just go to the bloody place themselves, Dad’s back and he doesn’t like being in the house alone when it's so empty anyway_.

The finishing touches — or so they hoped — had been placed on the map in the Potters’ mercifully airy sitting room, outfitted with Cooling Charms to ward off the summer heat. James occasionally made contributions via the two-way mirror, which were sometimes garbled both due to the magic reacting erratically to the distance and James reacting erratically to the time difference. Fleamont Potter, reading in an armchair, had pretended not to know what the boys were up to — aside from the very first day, when he’d told them, “If anyone from the Ministry shows up, it’s me messing around with all these charms, agreed?”

“I solemnly swear I’m up to no good,” Peter muttered back in the tunnel, tapping his wand over the map. Sirius edged closer, his own wand lit. The third-floor corridor that the tunnel let out into was indeed empty, though the dot marked Minerva McGonagall wasn’t far. Both boys hadn’t really expected Filch to be waiting right there, but they had been willing to make any excuse to try out the map.

Sirius grinned. “Perfect. _Ascensus_.” The statue gave way, and the pair clambered out into the corridor.

Peter and Sirius dusted off their robes, and Sirius pulled out the bundled-up Cloak of Invisibility. Then, huddling beneath it — “ _fuck_ , we’re getting too tall for this” — they made their way down to the Entrance Hall. On that journey they had to be more careful; they stopped and held their breaths on separate occasions as Filch and McGonagall passed by. In the Entrance Hall, Dumbledore, sweeping past them in magnificent blue robes, had paused for the briefest of moments.

“He saw us,” Peter whispered immediately after the headmaster was out of earshot.

“Gobshite,” said Sirius, but he too strode a little faster, a little quieter. When the coast was clear, they slipped into the basement, tickled the pear to reveal the kitchens’ entrance, and, removing the Cloak, stepped inside.

The hustle and bustle was like nothing either boy had ever seen in the kitchens, even though they had stopped by on the day of the Halloween feast in past years. House-elves ran every which way through the vast, high-ceilinged room, carrying steaming pots and pans.

“Chocolate cake,” Sirius said happily, peering at the desserts being carted around them. “Wonderful. It’s always just moist enough.”

“You should not be here!” a squat, all-too-familiar house-elf informed them.

“Oh, hello, Pansy,” said Peter nervously. They had had run-ins with Pansy before; perhaps the only house-elf impervious to cajoling and well-versed in Hogwarts rules, she had threatened them and chased them from the kitchens multiple times. 

They needed a distraction; the only thing that came to mind was the manners Peter’s mother had so carefully ingrained in him. “It’s lovely to see you. How was your summer?”

“No, no, no, you won’t divert Pansy with your tricks!”

“Christ, Peter,” Sirius said.

Pansy was now wagging a finger at them. “You ought to be in the Great Hall — I ought to tell Madam McGonagall—”

“No!” Peter shouted. “I mean — _please_ , Pansy, we’re only trying to see what, er, incredible stuff you’ve made for dinner—”

Sirius clapped him on the shoulder. “Keep her talking.” And he strode further into the hall, muttering spells at the finished dishes. 

Peter’s stomach sank somewhere around his knees. 

“Something is up, yes? Some — some _hijinks_ is in the works?” There was a telltale gleam in Pansy’s eyes. It was a gleam any Marauder knew well: the opposite of the mischievous gleam, it was the sparkle of a prefect docking points, or a Slytherin with a hex on the tip of their tongue.

It was _just_ like Sirius to leave him in this situation, Peter thought morosely. 

“All right, you win, Pansy,” he said, which made the elf perk up.

“Hm?”

“You’ve guessed it. Yes, we _are_ planning something, and I know nothing will keep you preoccupied while we get it done. You’re sharp. We, er, respect that in an opponent.”

The suspicion remained in Pansy’s expression, but Peter realised his flattery — unrelated to her competence as a house-elf, and entirely related to her horrible narky tendencies — was hitting home. 

“So,” he said, growing a little desperate, “let’s make a deal, you and me.”

Pansy clapped her hands together. “Oh! And what will you offer to Pansy, young worm?”

Peter winced, recognising his mangled nickname. “You let us carry on tonight — no, let me finish — and the next time you see us getting up to something and you feel inclined to stop us, you can do it. You have our blessing. You can tell — Dumebledore or McGonagall or whoever else.”

Pansy _hmm_ ed thoughtfully.

“This one’s really not all that important,” Peter said hurriedly. “Er, the next one will probably be…much more so. Much more rewarding for you to rat— _tell_ someone.” If he didn’t keep talking, he knew, she would figure out the obvious illogic in his offer: she could _always_ snitch the next time she caught them where they weren’t supposed to be. But guessing that the ‘next time’ she would just shoo them out of the kitchens — a predicament simple enough to get out of, now that they had the map _and_ the Cloak — it was a gamble worth taking.

“Very well,” said Pansy, still squinting at him. “Just this once!”

“Right. Thanks! Carry on,” he said weakly, darting past her to help Sirius.

When the dust — and the gravy — had settled in the Entrance Hall, a hour’s task that required several professors to settle the stampeding students, the Marauders were promptly hauled into McGonagall’s office. The Gryffindor Head of House looked more weary than she had at the feast, James thought, as though the mere reminder that she had two more years of dealing with these four boys had taken a toll on her.

“Evening, Minerva,” said Sirius, giving her a cheeky grin.

She gave him a sharp, quelling look. “Please, Black. Must we begin every year this way?”

“Professor, if this is about the food—” tried Remus, sounding apologetic despite everything; McGonagall snorted in disbelief, as did James, who figured they were years past that defence. “— _If_ this is about the food, you have no proof we had anything to do with it.”

Her hawk-like gaze landed on Remus next, who looked away. 

“If I were making this argument before the Wizengamot, Mr. Lupin,” she said dryly, “I believe they’d agree that five years’ worth of precedent does count for something.” Remus flushed.

McGonagall turned to James. “Mr. Potter? Anything to add to your friends’ scintillating statements?”

James cleared his throat. “Maybe the house-elves were trying out a new way to clean up, and it didn’t work?”

“House-elf magic is considerably more sophisticated than that of _teenage boys_.”

“Allegedly, that of teenage boys,” James offered. 

McGonagall shook her head. “Five points from Gryffindor for each of you. No — _be glad_ , Mr. Black, that I haven’t the time to prove your guilt just yet,” she added when Sirius started to protest. “Really, boys. All that effort and planning, just to drop food on students? With the first-years there too? I fail to see the point. It’s hardly sophisticated magic.” As she paced, the Marauders exchanged glances — and small smiles.

“Well?” McGonagall barked, startling them to attention. “What are you standing around for? Get back to your beds.”

In this they obeyed her, shuffling out with growing grins.

“Her _expressions_ are the worst,” said Remus glumly.

“Not bad enough for you to actually behave, clearly,” Peter pointed out.

“Cheer up,” said James. “I swear she almost smiled at the end there.”

The Marauders were sprawled in their dormitory not long after, celebrating success with a smuggled bottle of Firewhisky. Sirius, lying on his bed, poked a foot at Peter, who was sitting on the rug. Remus was the only one of them unpacking, carefully putting neatly folded shirts into his dresser despite Sirius pointing out that he was incapable of keeping them so tidy. For his part, James was slumped against the magicked LP player; The Who hummed softly through the room as he toyed with the tone arm. 

“Was the map all right?” Remus was asking. 

“‘Twas when we were in the tunnel,” Peter mumbled, fresh off a swig of the Firewhisky.

James looked at the map, which was spread out on the rug between him and Peter. It did indeed seem to be working as they wanted it to. The dots that marked the four of them were stationary in Gryffindor Tower. He pointedly did not look at the girls’ staircase. He also did not look at the sixth-year girls’ dorm. He did none of those things; if, hypothetically, he _had_ done those things, he would have registered that the girls were all in their beds. But he hadn’t, so he didn’t. 

“Prongs, you with us, mate?”

James looked up to see his friends all watching him. “What? Yeah.” He turned back to the record player and flicked the tone arm. The music jumped ahead with a squeak. Perhaps wisely, they continued their conversation rather than ask him any more questions.

“The real test is if the spell on the food will hold,” Sirius said. “And then, we can tie just about anything to the map’s magic.”

“It _is_ brilliant,” said James, forcing himself to focus on the others and not the parchment. “Almost like we thought of it ourselves.”

“Just what I was going to say.” Sirius turned to face James, nearly kicking Peter in the head in the process. “So, tell us about the bird from this summer again. Properly, this time.”

James straightened, grinning. _Here_ was a topic he could get behind. They had spent the train ride to school discussing their prank, which allowed for minimal chitchat about James’s trip to India. He had only returned on the last day of August; it was a strange feeling, waking up in the balmy English summer instead of the South Indian monsoon cool, and heading straight to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. It had taken the better part of the journey for James to sound English again, his accent finally reshaping itself to match his friends’. 

“She’s Shruti’s friend from Beauxbatons,” said James. The boys nodded; James’s second-cousin had visited in summers past. “Her name’s Mélanie. She’s half-Indian too… She and Shruti are doing a holiday around the world or something to celebrate having graduated.”

Sirius nodded sagely. “Worldly, French, older. This is going well so far.”

James rolled his eyes. “Yeah, she was…great.” It was difficult to describe a summer fling, he found, though like all teenage boys he was willing to try. The difference between himself in the summer — away from Hogwarts and his friends, for at least some time — was hard for him to put a finger on, but tangible enough that he noticed it. Probably it was because his friends had a far greater James tolerance than anyone he was related to, save his father. 

You have to understand that of course James loved the attention of _being James Potter_ ; he would not have _been James Potter_ if he hadn’t. But…even he could accept that it was probably better for all of wizarding Britain that he had the hols to let off steam — to just _be_. And especially in his mother’s family’s home in Mangalore, he could _be_. 

Mélanie — small, generously curvy, quick to smile that knife-sharp smile of hers — was the perfect extension of this summer tranquility. Neither of them had been interested in anything more than brief, sweaty interludes, not least because they did not want to have that conversation with Shruti. “I dunno, she’s…mellow. Fun to be around — but she wasn’t having any of my shit.”

“How refreshingly new for you,” Remus said dryly from his dresser. James made a rude gesture at him.

“She was the kind of summer fling you’d actually want to write to, afterwards.”

“And will you?” said Peter.

James, momentarily lost in recollection, only blinked. “Will I what?”

“Will you write her?”

“Dunno. Maybe.” In the silence, he moved the record player’s arm and changed the song again. Sighing, he looked up at his friends. “All right. What the hell are you _looking_ at me like that for?”

He didn’t miss the glance that the other three exchanged.

“Well, to put it bluntly…we want to know where this fits, in the grand fucking tapestry of your ever-enduring love for Lily Evans,” Sirius said.

James rolled his eyes. “Not _everything_ is about Evans.”

“No,” Peter agreed.

“But with you—” said Sirius.

“—most things are,” Remus finished.

James considered turning to face the wall instead, but he did not think that would do anything to deter this line of questioning. Over the summer, he had come to an epiphany — why talk and talk about Lily Evans when it solved nothing? In McGonagall’s wise words, he failed to see the point. It was time, truly time, to move the _fuck_ on. This was going to be the year he changed.

“Are you going to say something?” said Peter.

“Yeah, only that I was unaware I’m in the sixth-year _girls’_ dorm,” muttered James, which the others judiciously ignored.

“Mélanie isn’t going to help you get over Lily if you’re not actually seeing her, mate,” said Sirius. “And snogging her. Et cetera.” He waved a hand in faux elegance, as if to suggest James should fill in the blanks himself.

“Mélanie isn’t _helping me get over her_ ,” James said hotly. “I already _am_ over her.” At the others’ disbelief, he said, “Seriously. I am. You know how she looks at me. My life is only so long. What am I going to do, wait for her to stop thinking I’m worth less than the dirt she walks on?”

“To be honest, that’s been your strategy so far,” said Remus.

“Whatever.”

“And you’re not over Evans,” Sirius added.

James groaned, getting to his feet and making his way to the bathroom. He almost wished they could go back to the days when he — foolishly — had pined over her, and the others had — showing incredible, uncharacteristic wisdom — told her he was a hopeless idiot. 

It was simple: he would spend the year _away_ from Evans, instead of scheming for ways to casually run into her. He would be polite at best to her, instead of looking for ways to rile her up. He would focus on other things. Every other thing there was to focus on. Didn’t Muggles say something about when things were out of sight?

“Stop staring at yourself in the mirror,” Sirius said, appearing in the open doorway.

“Fucking hell—”

“You’re not over her.”

“And how do you lot of oafs figure that?” James demanded finally, sensing that was where they wanted the conversation to go and realising he was unable to talk his way out of it.

“You’ve had _Meaty, Beaty, Big and Bouncy_ on the record player since we got back,” said Peter.

“And so?” James said, exasperated. “I fucking like the Who!”

“You keep skipping over “Pictures of Lily,”” Remus said.

Incredulous, James studied the other three boys, all huddled in the doorway and apparently dead serious.

“I don’t even know how to respond to that.” 

James had never thought about whether or not he had a tell that revealed when he lied; he rarely had cause to lie to his friends. He considered it now. He supposed if anyone could see through him, it was one of the other Marauders. So what if he had been skipping that bloody song? That didn’t mean anything It was only part of the process: out of sight, and hearing as well. 

James threw up his hands in exasperation. “This is stupid. Look — this time it’s different. Just wait and see, all right?”

He waited for them to protest again. But perhaps they had seen something else in his expression, because they all retreated.

“Exploding Snap?” Peter suggested.

“Yeah, so long as you don’t fucking cheat again,” said James. So he _had_ been skipping a song — but the rest of it hadn’t been a lie.

Unbidden, Lily swam into his mind, sitting in the carriage with her chin cupped in her hands and her elbows on her knees. She wore a small smile; she said, _and, well, he asked me to be his girlfriend_... But James stopped himself from going further down that road. _This time will be different_ , he promised himself, and he meant it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know, i know, jkr is a terf, but i've wanted to write a long, canon-compliant marauders-at-hogwarts fic for so long and finally got the burst of inspiration to do it. (also wow there's so much canon information to juggle now?? back in my day we made stuff up on the fly constantly. not that i didn't do that with this too, ha) 
> 
> in case it wasn't already clear, i *will* be writing a south asian james potter! i also wanted to say explicitly on the record that the tag about diverse sexualities isn't a tease, and there is an explicit queer character :) and not disney-style explicit lol
> 
> anyway, i really appreciate any comments/kudos! thank you so much for reading! i do have this baby quite planned out so hopefully i can stick to a reasonable update schedule...and if you really want a quick update i'd appreciate you saying so ;)
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	2. Three, Two, One, Begin!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sixth-year gang gets ready for the first day of class. Dorcas is excited about the DADA professor. Mary wants a nice boy. Unrelated, Dex Fortescue is a nice boy. The Marauders' food prank is more elaborate than it seems. Do Aurors screw?

_i. Seeing is Believing_

“The way I know I have no true friends,” Dorcas said, meticulously buttering the corners of her toast, “is that I’m taking Ancient Runes alone.” 

It was the morning of September the second, and the girls were at breakfast, comparing schedules. Neither the Entrance Hall nor the Great Hall showed any sign of the previous night’s food fiasco. Even better, Doe thought, Mary had stopped complaining about Crollins and the cake she’d taken to the face sometime around eight in the morning. _Bless her_. 

“You wouldn’t be taking it alone if you’d studied with me enough last year,” said Germaine sharply. “Then Anderberg might’ve let me take it.”

Doe paused her buttering. “Would you really have taken it just for me?”

Germaine snorted. “Fuck, no.”

“Fuck _you_ , Germ.”

From a short distance along the table, Peter called, “You’re still taking Care of Magical Creatures, aren’t you? ...Gemma?”

Germaine softened at his use of the nickname. “Of course.”

“Me too,” Mary chimed in. “I needed an easy class to balance things out.”

“You’re the worst, Mare,” Dorcas said with a smile. Mary winked at her. Although, Doe didn’t disagree about Care of Magical Creatures. “Why _are_ you all still taking that class? It’s a terrible waste of time.”

Overhearing this, Sirius said, “I want to be a dragon trainer, so it is in fact the best use of my time.”

“The sight of you’d give even a dragon a fright, love,” said Mary. 

Fanning herself with her schedule, Sara sat down by them. Ever the social butterfly, their fifth roommate had swanned between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables since breakfast had begun; Dorcas reckoned Sara had made friends at Hogwarts before they’d even got their letters. 

“Defence first!” Sara said. “Are you excited, Doe?”

 _Was_ she excited! “God, yes! I mean, we’ve had a new professor every year and it’s only been five farty old men—“

“You liked Bellweather last year,” Germaine said. 

Doe rolled her eyes. “Bellweather? Please. He’s dead to me now. Anyway, did you hear Thorpe used to be a Curse-Breaker? I wonder why you’d give that up to be at Hogwarts. An actual Curse-Breaker — and she was some kind of prodigy too! I’m going to work so bloody hard in her class this year—“

“That’s new,” Mary said sarcastically. 

“—and if she doesn’t love me, I’ll probably die, so I’d say I’m excited—“

Sara’s smile had grown strained. “I was teasing, dear. I live with you. Crollins and Thorpe were all we talked about last night.”

Doe deflated a little, but her friends were laughing. 

“Oh, all right. Excuse me for enjoying our most practical subject. The one most useful to our awful current events, might I add.”

As the conversation turned to other, more trivial things — in Dorcas’s estimation at least — she realised the last of her friends had been silent all through breakfast. Lily was poring over the _Prophet_ , the slice of toast in her hand uneaten. 

“Everything okay?” Doe asked, her voice low. 

Lily started and looked up. “Oh! Yes — there’s just so much to read about… Look at this. A witch’s shop in a Muggle village was vandalised. They left this…awful graffiti…” 

Dorcas skimmed the article over her shoulder, her eyes snagging on _get out dirty Mudblood_. She felt a reflexive pinch of anxiety: _Mum Dad are they all right—_ Which was stupid, of course, she’d had a letter from her parents just that morning. But Doe had lived her life in an unusual limbo: her mum and dad were magic, but Muggle-born themselves. For all intents and purposes, blood purists would still think of Doe as someone to be _cleansed_ — though, she knew, her parents were in far more danger than she. 

Lily must have noticed the worry on Doe’s face, because she said, “Sorry, there’s no point in making all of us worry.”

“ _No_ ,” Doe said vehemently, surprising even herself. “It’s never better to be in the dark. If–If someone comes for me, Lily, I want to be facing them, with my wand in my hand.” 

Without realising it, Dorcas had raised her voice. Germaine, Sara, and Mary were all watching closely, identical expressions of sympathy on their faces. 

“Don’t say that, Doe,” Germaine said. “Nothing’s going to come for any of us. All right?”

The force of her conviction was nearly enough to dislodge Dorcas’s knot of fear. _Nearly_. Silence fell; Doe turned back to her food. Lily squeezed her hand. Inhaling shakily, Doe tried for a smile. 

“Forget about it. Let’s just go to class, yeah?”

“I don’t think Lily will be coming with us,” Sara murmured. 

“What?” said the girl in question, looking over her shoulder to see the new object of her friends’ attention: Dex Fortescue. Dorcas registered the little flush in Lily’s cheeks when she spotted him. People in love — and Doe’s friends were often in all-encompassing, girlish love, however much Mary would deny it — were _so_ adorable. 

“Morning, Lily,” Dex said. “Morning...Lily’s friends.”

“Oh!” Lily blushed deeper and introduced them all. 

Dex greeted them individually, his smile so genuine and cheerful that the girls — some of whom had been ready to play the protective best friend — exchanged knowing looks. _This_ , Doe thought, _is a_ good _boy._ She was familiar with this species herself, having fallen for several in her day — but Doe being Doe, she could never quite take the step of _telling_ them. That was a work in progress. _That_ was going to be her big change this year, she’d decided. 

“You lot have Defence Against the Dark Arts, right? Mind if I steal you away? I’ve got Muggle Studies,” Dex was saying to Lily. “I can walk you there.”

Over his shoulder, the girls saw Lily’s eyes widen as she considered this. It was easy enough to guess her train of thought; as Doe realised she needed a little push, Mary came to the same conclusion. Doe waved her hand insistently, _go go go, stupid!_ Mary, of course, took a more direct approach. 

“Yes! You can walk her there!” she said quickly before Lily could answer. “Go right now. And make it nice and meandering!”

To his credit, Dex laughed, and waited for a red-faced Lily to acquiesce. The two strolled out of the Great Hall; the girls watched them go, and cooed collectively when Lily’s head dropped to his shoulder.

“It’ll be strange to have Defence with everyone in our year now, not just the Hufflepuffs,” Germaine said, as the sixth-year Gryffindors sans Lily and Sara made their own meandering way to their first class. 

Doe, sensing an opening with some degree of self-awareness, grinned and said, “I can’t understand how our N.E.W.T class shrank. I mean, who wouldn’t take Defence? It’s only the most important—“

This elicited the expected reaction: groans all around. 

“It’s like _she’s_ the professor,” grumbled Peter. 

“And as for why our class has shrunken, ask your blessed Bellweather,” said Mary. “I bet he failed some of the more useless students.”

“I’ve never seen you come to the defence of useless students, Mare.”

“Oh, I’m not. They deserve it. But Bellweather was a perv. I swear I caught him peeking at my chest once.”

“Hey, look on the bright side. Now we can hex Slytherins…for _classwork!_ ” Sirius said. 

“Bloody hell. That’s a bright side for you only, Black,” said Germaine. “More importantly — Potter, how did it feel when the Harpies destroyed your precious Puddlemere?”

As the boys and Germaine argued about Quidditch, Mary fell into step beside Doe. 

“If you’re going to say a word about Crollins again—”

“Blessed Jesus and Mary! Can’t a girl complain just once? This is about my planned tragic romance.”

Doe rolled her eyes. “Does it work when you plan it?”

“Leave the technicalities alone, Doe. Look — I need your help. With boys.”

Doe looked at her friend, incredulous. The last time Mary had asked her for help in a matter even tangentially concerning boys had been in their fourth year, when she’d said, “Dorcas, do you think my tits are asymmetrical? Why are you walking away from me?!” But Mary seemed sincere, her small, glossed mouth pressed in a determined line that her friends knew was a sign: she was on the hunt. 

“What help could I possibly be to you, with boys?” Doe said. 

Mary made a gesture of frustration. “You — you know nice boys! I don’t! I just want to see someone _nice_ for once.”

“Are you thinking of anyone in particular?”

Anyone else might’ve responded with a bashful _no_. Mary considered the question seriously. 

“Well… Crollins isn’t nice. And Chris Townes isn’t that nice either. And—”

“I get your point,” Doe said quickly. “I suppose I can help. I’ve tried being Lily’s wingwoman for years—”

Nodding, Mary said, “And you’re having excellent results right now, I know.”

“—so I’ll think of someone. Just, be careful.” 

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean, if I’m going to introduce you to my friends…” Doe preemptively winced, unsure how to put this delicately. “Don’t break someone’s heart just because he’s there and interested, okay?”

An unreadable expression flickered across Mary’s face; then she brightened. “Who’s to say _I_ won’t be heartbroken?”

“I’ll believe it when I see it, love.”

They were approaching the DADA classroom, the entrance to which was clogged with socialising sixth and seventh years from the Muggle Studies class across the hall. Doe and Mary hung back, preferring to let Germaine and the Marauders push a path through the crowd. 

Suddenly, Mary pivoted Doe by the shoulder and tried — unsuccessfully — to hide her own tall frame from sight. 

“Ow, what the _hell_ —”

“It’s-Crollins-shhh-hide-me!”

“What’s the big deal?” Doe grumbled as Mary attempted to use her as a human shield. “So you got a cake to the face, it’s not as though you suddenly aren’t lovely and fabulous.”

“It’s humiliating!”

“Well, tough—” Doe broke off abruptly, noticing what few others had, hidden in the high arches of the corridor. It was hovering, as if searching...and then it became very still, as though it were preparing to strike. 

“Mare, look up. You’re going to want to see this.”

“What is it?”

Doubtfully Mary peered around her. The two of them watched as a crusty, day-old meat pie went _splat!_ onto Colin Rollins’s head. Caught unaware, Crollins howled and pawed at the chunks of pie in his hair. 

“It’s in my shirt!” he wailed. Mid-flail, he caught sight of the Marauders, who were now openly laughing. “Potter! Black! You’ll pay for this!”

“Reckon it’s time to get to class, Padfoot,” James said, grinning. 

“Gosh, wouldn’t we hate to be late?”

“Yes, and on the very first day—”

Doe stifled laughter of her own and pulled an awestruck Mary after them. 

“Hypothetically, the planners of this prank might be trying to target specific people,” Remus said to her with a smile. “And, hypothetically, food that’s missed its target might find a way to try again…”

“God, it sounds so ominous when you put it that way,” said Doe.

But Mary smiled back. “Do you know, I might find it in my heart to forgive you after all.”

* * *

_ii.The Whole Boyfriend-Girlfriend Thing_

Lily Evans was strait-laced. This had been a fact of her life for as long as she’d been at Hogwarts, though in primary school she had been quite the cheeky troublemaker. _Energetic_ , her teachers had called her, wearing strained smiles. Her parents had been somewhat relieved by the change in her that magical schooling had wrought. Perhaps the distraction of magic had been enough to satisfy her boundless curiosity. She had felt that way until now, at least.

While Lily-at-Hogwarts played that role — well-behaved, self-possessed, in full control of her tenacity and temper — Lily-at-home was quite a different animal. Her mother’s serene outlook and, worse, her sister’s stiff propriety both brought out Lily’s vivacious side. And her rebellious side. _And_ her difficult side. All three had been uncomfortably reined in this summer, what with Petunia’s horrid boyfriend around so often. Wearing a fake smile and watching her sister’s sickening love life had put things in perspective a little. Why _should_ she always do what was expected of her? The Lily-at-Hogwarts way had started to feel too close to the Petunia way.

Lily-at-Hogwarts would date a serious, intelligent boy, like Bertram Aubrey, or Caradoc Dearborn, and focus on her studies. She would take the most difficult N.E.W.T classes she possibly could. She would tell off James Potter when he caused a ruckus. She would roll her eyes and smile at Mary’s antics. But honestly, Lily didn’t _like_ Bertram Aubrey or Ancient Runes or turning up her nose like...like… _well, like Petunia!_ she thought furiously. Mary was no less driven or clever for having spent the last two years kissing Chris Townes. And how awful would it be to leave Hogwarts and realise she simply could not reconcile the strait-laced choices of Lily-at-Hogwarts with a nebulous, still-forming Lily-in-the-real-world? That was her biggest fear — that she would be eighteen and dating a boring bloke and working a boring job, only because it was the thing to do. ( _Rather like Petunia_ , she thought sourly.)

This was part of the appeal of Dex Fortescue, of course. He was funny, and easy to talk to, and just plain fun. They didn’t have to talk about geopolitics or philosophy for her to enjoy his company. 

Lily Evans wanted things to be honest, and simple, and _right_.

This thought occurred to her as they walked to class, her head pillowed on his shoulder. Considering the first of those three desires, she blurted out, “I’ve never had a boyfriend before.”

He pulled away to look at her, slowing his pace a little. “What?”

Embarrassed, Lily cleared her throat. “I, er, haven’t had a serious boyfriend before. So I don’t really know how any of this works.”

Dex chuckled. “Oh. Lily, if my bumbling way of asking you out didn’t prove I’ve never had a girlfriend, I’m a much better actor than I thought.”

She laughed along with him, relaxing. “It wasn’t bumbling. It was sweet.”

“Sweet,” Dex repeated dryly. “Just what every guy likes to hear.”

Lily punched him on the shoulder. “Look, I’m just telling you this because I don’t want to...do things the wrong way.”

“I don’t reckon there _is_ a wrong way.”

“Isn’t there?” She looked at him, _really_ looked at him. She hoped she didn’t sound too nervous. But Lily wanted things to be honest, and simple, and _right_ , and she was beginning to worry that _wrong_ was far easier to identify than _right_ ever was.

Dex squeezed her hip. “So long as we look out for each other, we’ll be all right, eh?”

Lily smiled. “I like the sound of that.” 

The first-floor corridor between her classroom and Dex’s was relatively empty — they were indeed too early for the morning bell. With a mischievous smile, Dex pulled her into a more secluded passageway. 

“Is this what you had in mind when you asked to walk me to class?” Lily teased.

“ _Obv_ iously.”

Tipping her head back against the wall, Lily hooked a finger into the knot of his tie and tugged him close. His hands came to rest on her hips just as his lips met hers. Lily allowed herself to be carried away the solid warmth of him, by how close he held her. A shiver ran down her spine. 

Was that...the sound of throat-clearing?

“Professor McGonagall,” Lily spluttered, detaching herself from Dex. “We’re so — I’m so—”

McGonagall gave her a long-suffering look. “Miss Evans, you are free to do whatever you like, but I would prefer that you not do it right outside my office.” She gave Dex a once-over and strode away.

“Oh, my God.” Lily pressed a hand to her forehead. 

“What did she give me that look for?” Dex said. “Like she’s your mum!”

They looked at each other and burst into laughter. Doubled over, Lily braced herself against her boyfriend and tried to smother her giggles, but every time she managed it she caught sight of him and began to laugh again. 

“Stop it, my sides hurt,” she gasped.

“ _Me?_ You’re the one who—”

“We can go find a more convenient wall if you’d like…”

At that Dex immediately fell silent. “By all means, lead the way.”

* * *

_iii. Thorpe_

The sixth years quieted down the moment Professor Thorpe swept into the classroom, a dark-haired, vaguely familiar wizard in tow. Lily, seated next to Dorcas, could feel her friend practically vibrating with excitement. She herself had been looking forward to DADA class since Thorpe had been introduced; the witch had a formidable air even before you heard her qualifications. 

Thorpe’s dark hair was pulled back from her angular face, emphasising the severity of her cheekbones. Her wide mouth was painted a deep red — the first time, Lily thought, she had seen a Hogwarts professor wearing noticeable makeup. 

“Where do you reckon she gets her lipstick?” Mary murmured over her shoulder.

“Zonko’s,” joked Lily.

“D’you think she’d tell me if I asked her?”

“Please don’t ask her,” said Doe immediately.

“Shh!” Germaine said. “She’s looking.”

Thorpe was indeed scanning the rows of desks. The wizard had taken a seat off to the side. 

“Who’s the bloke?” Lily whispered.

“We’ll _find out_ ,” Doe said, waving at her to shut up.

“Good morning,” Thorpe said; her voice was startlingly high, though it carried the rasp of a smoker. She walked towards the first row of desks. Lily could see the Ravenclaws seated there leaning away in alarm. 

“As you know, my name is Aprylline Thorpe, and I will be your Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Some of you may have heard…” Her dark eyes travelled over the assembled students. “...about my background. I left Hogwarts over a decade ago and have spent that time training to be and working as a Curse-Breaker. My work took me to Brazil, Poland, and Korea, and I am not exaggerating — or, indeed, bragging — when I say that I hope none of you will ever come close to the kinds of dangers I have faced.”

Dorcas inhaled; her eyes were brighter than Lily had ever seen them. Lily elbowed her friend playfully.

“But I’m neither naive nor stupid,” she continued, starting down the aisle. “Even those of you who do not aspire to be Curse-Breakers, or Aurors, or what have you, will leave this school to enter a wizarding Britain more fraught than ever. Unless you’ve been walking about with your eyes closed—” her lips twisted in disdain, showing just what she thought of that “—you will know exactly what I mean. I am of the belief that protection against the Dark Arts is the most important tool a witch or wizard can possess, now especially. I wouldn’t be here speaking to you if I didn’t.

“It is my job to prepare you for this future. Some of you may think I’m being alarmist; others might believe they do not require training _against_ Dark magic...for their own, flawed reasons.” Thorpe’s eyes narrowed.

The class stirred at her pointed emphasis, low whispers filling the room. Lily and Doe exchanged wide-eyed glances.

“Holy fuck,” Doe whispered. “Is she implying—”

“I think she is,” Lily whispered back.

“Regardless, I expect your attention and interest every day we meet this year and the next. You’ve had a rather scrambled syllabus, what with all your different professors, so you will be playing catch-up for the first half of the year. But once that’s done, I don’t doubt that we will progress well.”

Perhaps noticing that she had the class in a mild state of shock, Thorpe smiled a little.

“I sound like a terrible taskmaster, but I promise I will be fair. We’ll be doing a lot of practical magic — and surely I’m not the only one who sees the fun in that?” Her smile widened to a full-fledged grin, and Lily caught herself smiling along. Perhaps Doe’s over-the-top enthusiasm wasn’t unwarranted.

Thorpe clapped her hands. “Enough talk. Everyone up—” 

The moment they leapt to their feet, Thorpe pushed the desks up against the walls with a wave of her wand. A Hufflepuff girl who had moved too slowly found herself whizzing along with her bench; the class erupted into laughter.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” said Thorpe. “Miss…?”

“Florence Quaille,” the girl said stiffly, extricating herself from the bench.

“Miss Quaille, my apologies. I trust that nonverbal magic is a self-explanatory phrase?”

Florence nodded.

“Tell me, what’s the benefit of nonverbal magic?”

“Well... I suppose it can catch someone off-guard?”

“Exactly! Ten points to Hufflepuff — for the answer, and as an apology,” Thorpe said with a wry smile. Florence immediately brightened. “Can someone else tell me a possible drawback of nonverbal magic?”

Doe’s hand shot up so fast, Lily barely avoided the blow.

Thorpe’s eyes landed on them. “Yes, Gryffindor in the middle? What’s your name?”

“Dorcas Walker. Some spells are weaker when performed nonverbally.”

“That’s right. Five points to Gryffindor. Now, you’ve all cottoned on to the fact that we’ll be practising nonverbal spellwork, but what say we have a little demonstration?”

At that, the wizard who had entered with Thorpe sprang to his feet and strode to the centre of the classroom. Without being told to, the students formed a ring around them. If the room had been intrigued before, it positively thrummed with anticipation now. Lily couldn’t recall the last time she had seen teachers face off against one another.

“If you’ll introduce yourself—” Thorpe said to the stranger.

He gave the students a wave and a lopsided grin. “It’s good to be back. Name’s Edgar Bones. I was in my seventh year when you lot were starting here. Went straight from Hogwarts into the Auror program, and I’ve been there ever since.”

“A real-live Auror,” Dorcas breathed. It was hard to believe that gangly, genial-looking Edgar Bones spent his days chasing Dark wizards, Lily thought — but his introduction certainly explained why he’d looked familiar.

“Yeah, he’s also Amelia Bones’s brother, so they rather cancel out on the coolness scale,” said Mary darkly.

“Stand back, everyone,” Bones was saying. “Aprylline sold herself short. She’s just about the most talented witch I’ve ever seen.”

Thorpe rolled her eyes, but she was smiling — a bright, joyful smile that made her look years younger. Lily could well imagine her traipsing across the world as a young woman in her twenties, fearless and breathless with excitement. 

The two adults took several paces backwards and bowed. Raising their wands, they stood at the ready.

“You, in the specs. Count us down,” Thorpe said.

Lily saw James Potter straighten and do as he was told. For the brief heartbeats during which Thorpe and Edgar Bones were still and James was still counting, Lily allowed herself a flash of amusement at how the professor had referred to him. Had James ever been called _you, with the specs?_

And then Thorpe and Bones leapt into motion. It was a strange sight indeed. Without shouted incantations, their duel looked more like a carefully-choreographed dance than a fight — although, of course, neither of them was really trying to hurt the other. 

Bones struck first, casting a silent Stunning Charm that Lily recognised by its jet of red light. Thorpe deflected it and flicked her wand so a sudden wall of smoke filled the classroom, swirling around the professor and shielding her from view. Lily lost sight of both the duellists — until a flash of turquoise made Bones cry out in surprise. Thorpe dismissed her smokescreen and tried to press her advantage against the temporarily-immobile Auror; but Bones unfroze and shot a spell of his own at Thorpe with a flourish.

“Full Body-Bind,” Doe whispered — but Thorpe warded off the curse with a dismissive gesture. 

The professor retaliated with a grin and a snap of her wrist. Lily registered the familiar spell a moment before it took effect: Edgar Bones began to clutch his sides and laugh.

“Merlin’s — sake—” he gasped; despite the Tickling Charm, he managed to lift his wand. 

The ensuing spell let out a loud bang and caught Thorpe unawares. She skidded backwards, eyes wide, and pressed a hand to her chest as if in pain.

“Call it a draw,” she said after a moment, casting a counter-charm that freed Bones.

“Not too shabby yourself,” he replied, panting only slightly.

The class burst into thrilled applause, which made Thorpe smile and Bones laugh. 

“Pair up and spread out,” she called.

Dorcas seized Lily’s wrist and began to haul her towards a corner. “We have to get started right away, I _have_ to get this right—” she was saying, making Lily snort with laughter.

The rest of the class followed suit. Mary pointed at Sirius, taking both him and Germaine by surprise.

“Why me?” he wanted to know.

“I haven’t yet forgotten about the _cake_ you dropped on me. Let me get a hex or two in,” replied Mary.

“Pay attention to _me_ , Lily,” said Doe, waving at her.

“Sorry!” They stood with a few feet between them, wands aloft. 

Thorpe, weaving through the pairs, said, “Remember, you must concentrate! First one to successfully land a spell on the other earns ten points — and for goodness’s sake, don’t try anything that’ll put your partner in the Hospital Wing.”

With a deep breath, Lily locked eyes with Doe. The Stunning Spell was a good option, wasn’t it? _Stupefy_ , she thought. _Stupefy, Stupefy_ … 

A short distance away, someone succeeded in disarming their partner; “I heard that,” Thorpe said sharply. 

Lily swallowed and focused on her friend again. Doe really did have such pretty eyes — such a lovely, warm brown… Shit. _Stupefy!_ Wait. What if her spell was working, but Doe was casting a Shield Charm? _Stupefy!_ _Protego?_

For a split second, Doe’s eyes flitted away. Now was her chance — _Stupefy!_ But to Lily’s surprise, she was the one jolted backwards, as though Doe had reached out and pushed her.

“I did it! Oh, Merlin — sorry, Lily."

Lily gave her a sincere smile. “It’s all right. I thought I was going to get you when you looked away for cert.”

Doe’s grin was triumphant. “Yeah, I wanted to bait you into attacking. That way I knew you couldn’t shield yourself from my attack.”

Lily couldn’t hold in a laugh. “Oh, Doe. I can’t believe you planned this out.”

“Can’t you, though?”

Thorpe, hovering nearby, had clearly overheard this explanation. She made her way to Lily and Doe, patting the — starstruck — latter on the shoulder.

“Brilliant, Miss Walker. Ten points for your execution, and I suppose your daring has earned you an extra five.”

Doe looked positively luminous. 

Thorpe, meanwhile, had turned her attention to Lily. “Miss…?”

“Evans,” Lily supplied. “Lily Evans.”

“Miss Evans, you go on the attack now. Miss Walker will try and defend.”

But before Lily had even readied herself, there was a loud thump from the other end of the hushed room. Severus had fallen to the stone floor, stiff as a board. Anthony Avery stood over him, looking just as stunned as if _he_ had been the one struck by a spell. 

In the time it took for Thorpe to come to them and praise Avery’s work, a sullen Severus had recovered and was on his feet again — but he slouched in on himself even more than usual. Lily allowed herself to feel only the smallest stab of pity. 

“Avery?” Doe said, eyebrows raised. “Colour me surprised. He’s got rocks for brains — and that’s being generous.”

Lily hummed in response. Her friend wasn’t wrong. But perhaps Severus had been distracted, and Avery had capitalised… And there were plenty of distractions in a full classroom, weren’t there? Lily felt heat rising in her cheeks, and she turned back to Doe quickly.

“Ready?”

By the end of class the sixth years were all flushed with exertion, and, for some, the giddy excitement of success. Lily had disarmed Doe not long after Avery had cursed Severus — although before she had, James had tripped Germaine and a Ravenclaw girl had knocked back her partner. Not that Lily was keeping score, of course… Still, there was plenty of time to improve, and it seemed they were going to have an exciting year with Thorpe.

“Did you notice how she made a point of saying she’d be teaching us for two years?” Mary said as they made note of their homework and gathered their things. “I mean, she has to know the position’s cursed. She’s got pluck.”

“She _is_ a Curse-Breaker,” said Germaine. 

“If anyone can last two years at this place, it’s her,” Doe agreed. Germaine was grinning at her. “What?”

“Nothing. You spent all morning fawning over her, but after today I expect you’ll have to fight the whole school for her attention,” Germaine said. Dorcas only scoffed. 

“The real question is,” said Lily, “what’s an Auror doing at Hogwarts on an ordinary Thursday?”

Together they looked over at Thorpe and Edgar Bones, who was now chatting with his pretty, pert-nosed younger sister. 

“Dunno, Auror business?” Germaine offered. “Maybe he’s here to see Dumbledore.”

“Lily has a point,” said Doe. “I should think the Aurors don’t exactly have people to spare — not even to see Dumbledore, and certainly not to give duelling demonstrations to Hogwarts students.”

“If we’re speculating, I think it’s because he and Thorpe an item,” Mary said.

Doe frowned. “Don’t be thick, Mare.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “If you won’t believe me, I heard that Amelia thinks so. Well, I heard it from Chris, who heard that Amelia thinks so. I don’t hear things directly from her, of course.”

Lily shook her head, amazed. “We were in class. How on earth did you have time to gossip?”

“Please, Lily, it’s simple information-gathering. I have my ways.” 

“Do Aurors take time off to see their girlfriends?” Doe said doubtfully, her gaze flitting between Thorpe and Bones.

Mary shrugged. “I don’t know, Doe. Do Aurors fuck?”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, must you always be so crass—”

Lily tuned out this bickering as they strolled out of the classroom. Dex was leaning against the wall outside the Muggle Studies room opposite; he straightened and waved when he spotted her. Lily smiled back, welcoming the little flutter of warmth she felt at the sight of him. Her _boyfriend_. Even thinking the word felt wonderful, like...like Butterbeer on a warm winter’s day.

“Oh, he waited!” Doe said happily. “I _love_ young love.”

Behind them, someone let out a snort. Lily turned to see James studying Dex critically. 

“Young love,” he repeated, looking down at Lily. “How dull.”

“Even you can’t burst this bubble,” she told him sweetly, and made her way to Dex.

He gave her a hug in greeting, which only served to multiply her butterflies.

“D’you want to spend some time alone next weekend?” he said.

Lily blinked. “Next weekend? But the first Hogsmeade weekend isn’t for—”

“Well, it’s a big castle.”

“O-okay…”

“Saturday, ten o’clock, head to the left-hand corridor on the seventh floor. You know that odd tapestry, with the dancing trolls?”

Frowning, Lily recalled the strange hanging from her nights on patrol last year. “I think so.”

Dex nodded. “Right around there. Look, I’ve got to go. Don’t be late!” Giving her a quick kiss, he strode away.

Lily watched him go, perplexed. “But — there’s nothing there!”

“Ten o’clock! You’ll see!” he shouted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's revel in this moment together... this has to be the fastest i've updated anything EVER, and it's all thanks to your wonderfully kind comments. thank you, cattilyn, baselineescapeact, and nina! maybe keeping it up will result in another chapter being written, edited, and posted tomorrow ;)
> 
> all credit re: the intricacies of hogwarts's layout goes to harper robinson's maps on hp-lexicon. any errors are me blundering between there and the wiki. also, there are nuggets in this chapter that come from an old rp i was in on tumblr, some details of which are basically canon to me. if you were in pftm and you're reading this, hi, i miss you!
> 
> i had so much fun with this chapter, especially mary (who is a perennial fave of mine) and thorpe's fiery lecture in class, which took even me by surprise. and sweet, sweet doe, whom i want to love and protect with all my life! in the interest of not being queerbait-y, i will say that the girl who is going to have a female love interest is germaine, and because i can't resist dropping hints, that love interest appeared in this chapter. any guesses who she is? comment!
> 
> i've been on a classic rock kick so that fuelled the frenzied writing of this chapter. "her majesty" by the beatles is for mary (though mary isn't quite so vapid to me, this song will be relevant to her romance — about which a hint has also appeared here!), and though i do not endorse kissing teachers, "when i kissed the teacher" by abba popped up on shuffle when i started the DADA section, ha.
> 
> i wrote in a little non-spoilery chapter summary at the top (i didn't know they had those!), but let me know if you'd prefer a recap in that space instead/also! i expect i'll have to start recapping in a few chapters when the plot threads multiply dramatically. 
> 
> thus endeth this very long chapter note! have comments will speed-write  
> xoxo quibblah


	3. Love and Propaganda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Dex asks Lily on a date. James vows to get over Lily. The Marauders steal food from the Welcoming Feast and enchant it to follow around and fall on designated victims. The new DADA professor, a witch named Thorpe, stresses the importance of her subject in the current political climate. 
> 
> NOW: James searches for a Keeper. Germaine turns seventeen. The food prank claims another victim. There's a new head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For everyone who was hoping for a James/Lily moment... I'm so sorry. Toss a kudo to your fic writer!

_i. No More Looking Back_

It was a blistering-hot July day in the summer of 1976, and Germaine King hated shopping. In the end this was what caused the whole thing, Germaine would later insist, though Dorcas claimed credit of her own, and, unlikely as it sounded, Vernon Dursley deserved accreditation too. The summer had been one long heat wave thus far, made worse by Petunia and her boyfriend. A more immediate cause for Lily’s annoyance was that the night before, the Evans women had hosted said boyfriend for dinner.

“How can you _possibly_ fancy someone who so clearly thinks himself superior to you?”

Unable to ask Petunia this directly, Lily spoke to Doe instead. The girls were in Madam Malkin’s in Diagon Alley, mindlessly strolling down the aisles as Germaine argued with her older sister Abigail some distance away from them.

(“Those are vile! Why have they got lace everywhere!”

“It’s fashion, Germaine, for heaven’s sake—”)

Doe looked up from the robes she was examining. “Oh, was that last question rhetorical?”

Lily sighed. “Yes. No. I don’t know!”

“I know what you need. Ice cream helps everything.”

“We can’t get ice cream. We’ll have eaten it three days in a row.”

This was true; it was also their third straight day in Diagon Alley shopping with the King sisters. Germaine would be turning seventeen in late September, the first of the girls to come of age, and her parents were insistent on throwing her a belated party in the winter hols. Germaine knew exactly what kind of party they meant — a boring dinner with _their_ friends at which she would have to dress uncomfortably and suffer in silence. It was partly her abhorrence of the party itself that made her so difficult during these shopping excursions. 

But Abigail, who was small and blonde like her sister and just as stubborn, knew they had to find her an outfit before Germaine escaped to Hogwarts, lest she find a way to wriggle out of the whole event. Anticipating many, many arguments, Germaine had asked her friends to come along to act as a buffer against Abigail. But the most effective buffer — fashion-conscious Mary — was visiting her grandparents, and Lily and Dorcas were so drained by the heat that they were little help. Germaine was throwing evil looks at the pair of them in between her dismissals of Abigail’s suggestions. Despite the hostile environment, Lily and Doe were glad to have Side-Along Apparated with Abigail to the shopping street, if only for the magically-cooled shops. 

“Come on, Lily,” wheedled Doe. “Eventually this awful heat will pass and we’ll wish we had an excuse to have ice cream three days in a row!”

“I’m sure you’d be able to come up with something,” Lily said. “But all right, let’s go.”

Grinning, Doe called out to Germaine and explained the plan. Their friend looked immensely relieved at the prospect of a break and promised to be along soon.

Florean Fortescue’s parlour was right across the street. Though the shop’s indoor section was full, the tables outside were all empty — thanks, of course, to the weather. Ignoring Lily’s insistence that she was going to get sunburn, Doe chose the table closest to the doors, so that when a customer walked in or out the Cooling Charm washed over them pleasantly. 

“I’ll pay today,” said Doe. “The usual?”

“Yes, please.”

Shading her eyes, Lily squinted at the trickle of shoppers who had chosen to brave the outdoors. She didn’t often get to visit the magical parts of Britain during the summer holidays, unless she was seeing Germaine, who lived in a Muggle country village that was half-populated with witches and wizards. And that was nothing compared to Diagon Alley, where people were so openly magical. But Merlin, it was too hot to people-watch — sweat was pooling under her arms, and she probably looked hideous…

Doe returned and collapsed into her chair. “Here you go, honeyed oats and lavender. God, I could never get tired of this.”

Lily murmured her agreement. Any longer and the sun would be melting her brains, she thought.

“I wonder if Germaine’s coming, or if we ought to go rescue her— what?”

Doe had gone very still, peering at something over Lily’s shoulder.

“What is it?” Lily said, more insistent this time. She started to turn around, but Doe grabbed her hand.

“Don’t look now, but the bloke from the shop is watching you.”

Lily laughed. “That doesn’t sound creepy at all. Is he the right side of fifty?”

“Ha, ha. You know that’s not what I meant. It’s _the bloke_ from the shop, the one our age. You said he was cute yesterday.” Doe gave her a meaningful look.

“Oh!” Lily fought off the urge to turn around again. They had been served by the boy the day before; she reckoned he was a year above them at Hogwarts. He was certainly not a Gryffindor. Oh, what was his name?

“Is he really looking? And not in a strange way?” said Lily, her heart quickening.

“ _No_ , in a cute, I’m-interested way. You should go say hi!”

“Absolutely not. It’s hilarious that you think I would do that.”

Doe punched her on the shoulder. “I am going to talk you into doing that. Nothing matches my instinct for when a bloke is interested in my friend. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I don’t know his name!” Lily protested.

“So ask, you dunce!” 

“I don’t think—”

“You need to _stop_ thinking,” said Doe. “Just go!”

“Rich coming from you, Walker.”

“If you’re trying to change the subject, it’s not working!” When Lily opened her mouth to argue, Doe clapped her hands over her ears. “La-la-la-la I can’t hear you!”

“You are five years old,” laughed Lily. _I might as well_ , she told herself, _just to get Doe to shut up. No, I am definitely not doing this because I fancy this boy_. Smoothing down her hair and adjusting her floral blouse, she stood up and stepped into the shop.

She spent a few seconds blinking while her eyes adjusted to the light. The cute guy had indeed been looking in their direction — was _still_ looking in her direction, apparently shocked that she was looking back at him. Lily gave him a little wave and went up to the counter behind which he stood.

“Hiya, can I help you?” He had recovered from his surprise. 

“Er, no — I mean, yes. Well, not exactly,” Lily stammered out, cursing herself all the while. 

“Say more, Lily Evans.”

His smile was so wide and open and friendly. She felt her heart skip a beat.

“You know my name!” she said without thinking. _Bad to worse, Evans_.

“Sure I do,” said the boy, flicking his wand so that a knife on the sideboard near him began to chop fine slices of almond. “You’re at Hogwarts too. Gryffindor, going into sixth year. You’re a prefect. I know you.”

Lily’s aflutter heart sank at this. “Oh… You know my whole introductory thing.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He snorted. “I’m not a terrible person.”

“Well, you see, the thing is…” Lily looked away from his honey-brown eyes. “I don’t know _your_ name. Or what house you’re in. I think you’re a seventh-year but now I’m beginning to question that as well.”

His friendly demeanour faded. “That’s incredibly awkward. Now I feel like a bit of a stalker.”

“God, I’m sorry! I’ve really put my foot in my mouth, haven’t I?”

“No, you — what? What does that even mean?”

“Sorry,” Lily said again, feeling more and more of an idiot. “It’s a Muggle saying — you know what, I should just go—”

“Please don’t!” The boy’s grin returned. “I’m only messing. Your friend gave me your name.”

“Of course she did.” Lily was so relieved, she almost didn’t want to shake Dorcas by the shoulders for her scheming.

“Yeah, I knew you looked familiar, but I’d hardly remember that you’re a prefect. Is that what you’re used to from blokes who’re chatting you up?”

“Is that what you’re doing? Chatting me up?”

He winked. “Trying to, yeah. Is it working?”

Lily laughed. “Just about. What’s your name?”

“Dex Fortescue.”

“Is Florean your father, then?”

“Nah, my uncle. And my cousin. I mean, I’m related to two separate Floreans. None of this is information you care about or asked for, so I’ll stop.”

She laughed again. Struck by a sudden rush of daring, she said, “Do you want to come sit with my friend and me for a bit? We’ll share our ice cream.”

Dex winced. “Sorry, my shift doesn’t end for a bit. And to be honest, I’m quite sick of ice cream.”

“Oh…” Lily wondered if she ought to just say goodbye. What a nightmare this whole conversation was turning out to be. 

But Dex continued, “I wouldn’t say I’m sick of you at all, though. Maybe you can stop by again before you leave?”

“I think I will. But I have to warn you…”

“Yes?”

“That’s the last time you toy with my emotions, Fortescue.”

Saturday mornings — or, indeed, weekends at all — were James’s last choice for Gryffindor’s Quidditch tryouts. But that bloody Lucinda Talkalot had beat him to the weekday spots. So he headed to the pitch at the pleasant, agreeable time of four o’clock, far before the sun showed any inclination of rising. The moon was still a pale blot of wax in the dark sky. 

“I have to say, this is up there on the list of your _worst ideas ever_ ,” grumbled Germaine, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes. 

“Coming along is up there on the list of _our_ worst ideas ever,” Sirius said. "Or mine, at least. I'm not even _on_ the fucking team anymore." The two of them were lugging the school’s spare brooms in addition to their own.

James ignored them both. He focused instead on measuring out distances for sprinting drills on the already-dewy pitch, marking them with little red flags. His mind was mercifully, blissfully clear — all that existed was the crisp smell of night and the friendly nip of the pitch’s air. He looked up at the goalposts standing silent sentinel over the hushed grounds. They made him feel small, insignificant — and as powerful and infinite as the stars.

“Hello, you,” he breathed.

Behind him, Germaine said, “Oh, good, he’s talking to the goalposts now. As if we don’t already worry he’s lost his mind.” 

“Oh, stop complaining,” James told her. “You’re excited about the start of the season too.”

“The start of the season is exciting when it means _flying_. Not _daggers_.” She eyed the cheery flags with great dislike. 

The sprints she referred to were so called by the Gryffindor players because they caused horrible, stabbing pain the next day. Daggers were James’s favourite ground drill — not coincidentally, his team’s least favourite since the day he had first instituted them as practice mainstays.

James grinned. “Don’t worry. We’ll warm up with daggers, and then you and Sirius can demonstrate them for whoever shows up.”

They groaned in unison. 

“I suppose we should start on laps,” said Sirius.

“No use putting it off,” Germaine agreed.

“And I didn’t even have to ask! You’ve learned so well,” James said. 

“Shut up,” they chorused, before jogging to the pitch’s perimeter. 

Setting down his broom and the trunk of equipment, James stretched and let out a long, satisfied breath. The day before had been a nightmare of a tryout — Gryffindor’s slot had been _after_ sunrise, and James had spent more time telling off cackling Hufflepuffs than actually evaluating candidates. And then, when things had just started to settle down, the Ravenclaw Quidditch team had come by to heckle, scaring off everyone who showed promise. He’d spent all morning resisting hexing Stephen Fawcett, their captain, into the next year. 

But that had only been the first day. He had a good feeling about it this time. With this thought in mind, James began his own laps.

“Faster, you two!” he called to Germaine and Sirius.

Lily was not a morning person. 

The symphony of her daily routine was all too familiar to her roommates. “Shit,” she’d mumble as she scrambled out of bed and silenced her alarm. “Merlin,” she’d say, as she stubbed her toe on whatever book Sara had left on the rug. “Fuck,” she’d groan as she caught sight of her pillow-creased, blotchy face and her tangled hair. So on days when the sound of Lily waking up was mysteriously more cheerful, the other Gryffindor sixth-year girls knew something was up.

“You’re looking awfully pleased today,” Dorcas observed, stifling a yawn. She could see into the open bathroom doorway from her bed, so she had the perfect view of Lily dancing as she brushed her teeth.

“Fank oo,” said Lily, doing a little spin. She spat out toothpaste and examined her teeth in the mirror. She absolutely had to have minty-fresh breath today. Assuming all went well, there would be a great deal of kissing in her near future. 

“No prob. That weird hopping move of yours makes you look like you’re doing a gremlin mating dance, though. Don’t try that in front of Dex.”

“Up yours, Walker.”

“ _That’s_ not very nice.”

Lily waved her away and shut the door. The shower water was just perfect — a perk of being the first to use it, which she did not often get to enjoy. She allowed herself to linger there longer than she needed to, combing through her long hair with her fingers until there wasn’t a single knot left in it. She was still humming when she stepped out and scrubbed her fist over the fogged-up mirror. Her cheeks were pink and her hair was dripping onto the floor, but she grinned at her reflection.

“You, Lily Jane, are a knockout,” she told herself.

Someone pounded at the door. “Can the knockout hurry up so I can use the loo?” Dorcas shouted.

Rolling her eyes, she put on her robe and padded out to the dormitory. Mary was still sound asleep, and Sara and Germaine had already left. Lily knew that very little could wake Mary Macdonald on a Saturday morning, so she flipped through their shared record collection. It was a _Waterloo_ sort of day, she thought. The cheerful guitar-and-string opening of “Honey, Honey” filled the room.

In that mood, it took her a great deal longer than usual to get ready, what with all the breaks she took to sing into her wand like it was a mic and strike silly poses in her mirror. Mary woke up just as Lily had finished magically drying her hair and applying her mascara. The two of them fussed far more than necessary on her outfit before finally settling on a long-sleeved black turtleneck and a sunflower-yellow skirt of Mary’s. 

“Perfect,” Mary pronounced. “ _Chic_.”

“He’ll die,” agreed Doe, who had emerged from the bathroom to watch the costuming process. “He’ll die on the spot the moment he sees you.”

“I should hope not,” said Lily, but she beamed at herself. It really was a good look, and it went well with the deep red of her hair. 

“Maybe a different kind of death,” Mary said innocently. “A little death.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” said Lily, flushing.

Dorcas threw a pillow at Mary. To Lily, she said, “You should go before you’re late.”

Lily checked her wristwatch. It was five minutes to ten, which would be cutting it close… But the spot Dex had mentioned to her wasn’t far from the Fat Lady’s portrait. Waving goodbye to her friends, she skipped down to the common room. 

Now that the fun of getting ready was behind her, a cloud of nervous anticipation had descended. She had walked down the corridor they were supposed to meet in last week, confirming that there was nothing by the funny little tapestry. If she were seeing anyone else, Lily might have wondered if it was all an elaborate joke. But surely Dex wouldn’t do that — he had a sense of humour, but he wasn’t cruel. No, that could not be it. How could she have missed a whole room, though? Damn, she _was_ going to be late.

Turning the corner into the all-important corridor, Lily stopped short. There was a door set into the wall opposite the tapestry, and Dex was holding it open.

“Lily! Come on!”

Deciding to save her questions for later, she grinned and ran to her boyfriend.

Shit. Merlin. Fuck. Fucking _hell_. 

His first instinct about the Saturday morning slot had been right after all. 

It had been six bloody hours since James, Sirius, and Germaine had first arrived at the pitch. Only one incredibly nervous flier had shown up before sunrise, which ought to have been a sign. The way James saw it, his absurd tryout times were only preparation for practice. If people couldn’t handle the former, they were certainly not cut out for the latter, let alone playing time. He had even wondered if his stubbornness would cost him — a remarkable feat of self-awareness, for which he congratulated himself — in the time before the real candidates arrived. 

But his hopes had quickly been dashed once more. Everyone he had seen so far that morning was just _wrong_. Too weak, too unsteady on their broom, too _bad_. Part of the problem was that James’s point of comparison, the Keeper who had just graduated, had been a captain’s dream: easy to work with, driven, competitive. She had been on the same page as him, and that was high enough praise. 

With her example in mind, James could be forgiven for reacting poorly to the stringy second-years who tried out.

“Do you think we’ll ever leave?” Germaine said. She and Sirius, in addition to helping run the ground drills, had been enlisted to toss Quaffles at the prospective Keepers. (The latter was not an official member of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, but none of James's actual players had argued when Sirius had volunteered to take their place that morning.) When even Germaine — a Seeker — was scoring with ease, James’s outlook grew pretty grim.

“Do you think we’ll ever see a decent option, is more like it,” James said. He wanted to pace. Perhaps he ought to land his broom just so he could pace.

“What do you reckon our odds of winning the cup are if we just stick a second-string Chaser in front of the goalposts and hope for the best?” said Sirius.

Germaine scowled. “Ravenclaw are good this year. We need a decent Keeper.”

“Thanks, I’m aware,” James said curtly. "And we don't _have_ a second-string Chaser anymore, remember?" He had not meant to sound cutting — to remind Sirius that _he_ had been the first-string Chaser until certain events the previous year — but it came out sharp anyway. He sighed, and turned away.

“Wait, look, someone’s coming—”

James turned towards the castle. Someone was indeed coming — three someones. Two of them had brooms.

“They brought their own brooms. They should be all right,” said Germaine, sounding as though she didn’t dare hope.

 _Fucking_ finally, thought James.

“Fucking _finally_ ,” Sirius said.

The three of them flew towards the newcomers and dismounted. 

“You know any of them, King?” Sirius whispered.

“I don’t think so,” replied Germaine. “But I’m awful with faces. And names.”

“So, people in general. Got it.”

The two with brooms were both fair-haired and fair-skinned, though one was stout and the other was gangly. Gangly had a stubby ponytail that James immediately disliked. The third, who was hanging back a little, was black and broad-shouldered, with thick-framed glasses. He wished his friends good luck and started towards the stands, which made James deflate a bit. Never mind, two options were still good enough — and if Gangly showed promise, James would come around to the ponytail eventually.

“Names?” he said.

Gangly was called Laurence, and Stout was Richie.

“How long will this take?” Laurence wanted to know.

James stared at him until he flushed. “Why, have you got somewhere to be?”

“N-no…”

“Then you’ll stay for as long as it takes. Obviously you came despite whatever horror stories you’ve heard about me.” 

With that, he strode towards the sprint flags. The others followed.

“I thought Potter was supposed to be fun,” he heard Richie say, his voice hushed.

“What can I say? He’s a good bloke everywhere but the pitch,” responded Sirius. “It’s a curse.”

“I can’t believe you did all this,” Lily said, not for the first time. “And that you found this room!”

Adorable pink spots appeared in Dex’s cheeks at the compliment. “It was really nothing. What’s frustrating is that the door doesn’t always appear — I have to concentrate really hard on summoning it. A smarter bloke than me would have a field day analysing its magic.”

“Yes, I suppose it’s intent-based,” mused Lily, tapping her chin with a finger. “Although, how can you concentrate on making the door appear before you know it’s even there? It’s an odd thing, hiding the entrance to a common room. Perhaps it’s like the prefects’ bathroom, and the secret of how to call it up has just been lost over the years… That might explain why more people don’t simply stumble upon it… Oh, what are you smiling at me for?”

“A smarter bloke than me,” said Dex, smiling, “or a smarter bird.”

The room in question was cozy and circular, its stone floor covered in warm, plush rugs. A fire blazed at one end and bookshelves lined half the space’s perimeter. The other half was a little kitchen, with cabinets full of utensils and bowls and magical cookbooks. Dex and Lily were seated across from each other on high stools at the kitchen counter. It was lovely and domestic, in the best of ways. 

The whole scene was made even better by the butter-and-sugar aroma filling the room. Dex had brought his own baking ingredients — “there’s never any food here but I wouldn’t dare eat it anyway, who knows how stale it’d be” — and he had coached her through the steps to make shortbread. 

“Are we making millionaire shortbread?” Lily had asked when she’d seen the chocolate he’d brought.

But Dex had looked confused. “What’s that? No, this is something my mum makes, it’s called a Galleon biscuit…”

Lily had learned that the Galleon biscuit was not all that different from millionaire shortbread, substituting peanut butter for caramel. The real magic of the biscuit, though, was in the way Dex stirred the chocolate, adding a strange essence so that it _fizzed_ in the mouth like champagne. The sensation had so startled Lily that she’d jumped backwards and knocked into him, for which she then spent ten minutes apologising. 

Dex was an exacting baker; he told her that he much preferred this sort of cooking to the family’s famous ice cream. There was such a thing as wizard culinary school, too, in France, and Dex had told her with a touch of shyness that he wanted to attend it after Hogwarts.

“You must be terrific at Potions,” Lily said now. The baking biscuits were making her stomach grumble, though she had eaten a good portion of the other food Dex had brought: soft breads and sharp cheeses and juicy grapes.

“I’m all right,” Dex allowed. “But not nearly as good as you. Slughorn adores you, you know. He tells us seventh-years about how you’re a prodigy — you and that Severus Snape.”

Lily felt as though he had doused her in cold water. Dex must have seen her expression change, because he took her hand, regret clear in his eyes.

“Merlin. I forgot that was a touchy subject — I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s really all right,” said Lily, smiling to show him she meant it. Then she sighed. “You heard about that too, did you?”

“Well… it was tough to miss. I was at the lake that day too.”

“So you saw the whole thing.”

“Not the whole thing, but enough, I reckon.” He let out a long breath. “I’m sorry that happened, Lily. I’m sure this isn’t the first time someone’s said that to you, but…”

“It isn’t,” Lily said, “but I appreciate it.” She squeezed his hand; he began to trace her knuckles with his thumb.

“Snape was out of line. But Potter too — there’s better ways to solve problems,” Dex said, his brow furrowed. “A little civility would go a long way.”

Lily smiled. “You know, I am _so_ glad you said that.”

“All right, time!” James called. “Give us a moment.” He beckoned Germaine and Sirius over, and the three other fliers — another having arrived since Laurence and Richie had begun their tryout — sagged in relief.

Lowering his voice, James said, “What do you think?”

Sirius eyed the boys. “I mean...they’re all right,” he began.

“Ponytail’s probably the best,” said Germaine. She chewed her bottom lip. “But with the luxury of choice I wouldn’t have any of ’em.”

“Do we have that luxury, though?” Sirius said.

“It’s only the second day,” James reminded them. “We might find someone else.”

“I dunno, are you expecting the perfect Keeper to wake up on Monday and realise they ought to try out? If the right person were at Hogwarts they’d have shown already.”

James considered this. “Let’s keep these three in mind, but I think we’re done for today.” 

He repeated this to the three younger boys, who didn’t look too pleased at the prospect of waiting to hear back. _Tough_ , James thought. Germaine had been right — Ravenclaw _were_ really good, with all their players from last year’s Quidditch Cup-winning team returning. Gryffindor had come close, but close was not good enough. No, it was best to hold tryouts all week as planned and then see where to go from there, though a niggling voice in the back of James’s mind told him Sirius had a point too. 

Sirius and Germaine went to put away the Quaffles and remove the flags from the pitch, but James hovered in mid-air for a few minutes. The wind ruffled his hair in every direction — it would probably look a right mess when he was done… His train of thought careened to a stop, however, when he spotted the boy in the stands. It was the kid who’d come with Laurence and Richie. He had apparently sat through all of the drills his friends had run, and he showed no sign of leaving now. _Hang on, is he taking notes?_

James shot towards the stands. If this boy was a spy for Ravenclaw, he’d hex him. And then he’d hex Stephen bloody Fawcett until that godawful smirk was wiped off his face for good—

“Oi, you!” James shouted. “What d’you think you’re doing?”

The boy’s eyes widened when he saw James. He looked so terrified, James almost felt sorry for him. “I-I was just leaving—”

“You’re not going anywhere.” James brought his broom to a stop mere feet from him. “Not until you tell me who paid you to spy on my tryouts.”

“ _Spy?_ I’m a Gryffindor!” All fear forgotten, the boy sounded genuinely indignant. “What would I be spying for?”

“Money. Fame. Whatever Stephen Fawcett promised you.”

“What? Stephen Fawcett— I’m not spying! I just wanted to see what drills you ran!”

James arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Honest. I live near a Quidditch team and I watch them practice sometimes. I-I wanted to see what you do.”

This piqued his interest. “Really? Where do you live?”

“Dorset — River Piddle,” the boy said. “That’s where—”

“—Puddlemere play,” James finished. He hopped off his broom onto the stands, making the boy start. Running a hand through his damp hair, James sat down and peered at him. “I reckon we got off to a bad start. What’s your name?”

“Percy Egwu.”

“Percy, I’m James Potter.”

“I know.”

“Right. You can forgive me for being cautious, yeah?”

“I suppose. Do you get spies often?”

There was a pause. “No,” James allowed. “But that’s why I was being cautious. Expect the unexpected. So, you’re a Puddlemere fan and you take notes on my drills, but you don’t want to try out yourself?”

Percy looked away. “Well, I normally play Chaser, but you don’t need one of those.”

“No, we don’t. We’re always on the lookout for second-string players, though.”

“Yeah…but Laurence and Richie said you’d think I was too young.” He was clearly embarrassed by this confession, but James noted the set of his jaw. _You’ve got pride, Percy Egwu,_ he thought, with more than a spot of respect.

“What year are you, Perce? Do you mind if I call you that?”

“Fourth. And that’s all right, it’s what my mum calls me.”

James nodded. “Fourth year isn’t too young — we let second years try out.”

“Yeah, but when was the last time a second year made the team?” Percy challenged.

James didn’t have to think to answer. “Me.”

“Oh.”

“Do you have a broom? One of your own, I mean?”

“Yeah — it was a birthday present.” He glowed at the very thought. “It’s a Comet 220.”

James was duly impressed. “Wow. Smooth ride, that.”

“It is.” Percy’s eyes went to James’s still-hovering broom. “How does your Nimbus fly?”

“Like a dream.”

“I’ll bet!”

“Look, let me be honest.” James looked right at Percy. “We desperately need a good Keeper. But Quidditch isn’t all knocking heads and whizzing about — you know that. And we need a Keeper who can think the game, not just play it. Now, I haven’t seen you fly, but I reckon you think the game pretty well.”

Percy blinked owlishly. “But—”

“Just bring your Comet to tomorrow morning’s tryouts, right? Give it a shot. At the very least we could have you as a second-string Chaser, like you wanted.”

Percy looked like he was fighting a smile. “You sure?”

“Me? What matters is if _you’re_ sure. Are you?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “All right. I’ll be there.” 

“Brilliant. See you tomorrow, Perce.”

Percy picked up his notebook and walked away. James sat in the stands for a little longer, smiling to himself. Yes, he was rather shit at a lot of things, he reflected, but not this. This, he was _good_ at.

“Captain dearest,” a sarcastic voice called. Germaine flew into view, her hair tousled and her delicate features scrunched into a scowl. “Any reason you got to laze about while Sirius and I cleaned up?”

James grinned. “Consider yourself freed from tryout duties on Monday. And for your information, I was hard at work here.”

Her frown gave way to curiosity. “Doing what, exactly?”

“Only finding our next Keeper. Call it a feeling.”

It was nearing noon when Lily and Dex emerged from the room, wearing matching grins. Her hair was rather messier than before, as was his. His lips were rather redder than before, as were hers. Overall, Lily reckoned it had been a very successful date.

No doubt these stolen moments would be scarce as the year went on, what with homework and Dex’s N.E.W.T.s. She was glad that he hadn’t waited until the first Hogsmeade weekend to ask her to see her. Ever a promoter of solidarity among her gender, Lily now allowed herself the briefest pinch of smugness. Other girls would have to content themselves with unromantic study sessions until November. _She_ had a little nook in which to enjoy her boyfriend’s company...and she had enjoyed it a great deal.

“I had a lot of fun today,” she said as they approached the common room’s entrance. The Fat Lady met Lily’s gaze and said nothing, but raised her eyebrows at Dex. Lily chose to ignore this. Someone was whistling a Bob Dylan song; the sound echoed through the corridor as she smiled at Dex.

“Thank you for showing me the room — and for the biscuits. My friends will love them.”

Dex chuckled. “I won’t say I’m trying to bribe them for their affection… but I’m not _not_ doing that.”

“They’ll be getting an extremely complimentary report after today,” she assured him.

“Is that so.” He leaned into her, his hands finding her waist.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Full marks. Outstanding.” Cupping his face, she pulled him down to her for a long, slow kiss.

The Prefects’ Bathroom was a long walk from Gryffindor Tower. James had made it even longer, half-humming and half-whistling as he ambled up the North Wing stairs. It wounded his pride a bit to use anything meant for prefects, but he contented himself with the knowledge that a shared bathtub was the closest he’d be getting to real authority at Hogwarts. Besides, it was a great bathtub. He smelled like marshmallow.

James had to briefly break into a jog to catch up to the next staircase before it moved out of place. That very nearly made him frown — the castle was a finicky creature, but he felt as though he had come to know it, had befriended it, even. It was hurtful, honestly, for it to inconvenience him. 

But his good mood was more powerful than moving staircases. James alighted on the seventh floor, putting his hands in his pockets. He had been whistling without paying attention to what, exactly, he was whistling. He now recognised the tune: “Like A Rolling Stone.” The thought pleased him. Even his subconscious was doing well today.

The Fat Lady was watching a kissing couple with disturbing interest. James took in the boy’s blond hair and the girl’s auburn plait. If he were being honest with himself, he took in more than that. He knew, of course, that the girl was Lily Evans. But just as he processed this information, he noticed what hung above them. He stopped whistling abruptly. 

_Splat_.

Lily had never thought she was the kind of girl who could shriek. She didn’t think she had it in her. But the unholy sound she emitted when something _wet_ and _mushy_ fell on her head was definitely a relative of the shriek. A close cousin, perhaps. 

Lily jumped back from Dex, groping for her wand. “Oh my _God_ —” A horrible voice in her head was telling her the substance had to be bat droppings. _Please,_ anything _but batshit._

Dex was in a similar state, spluttering and trying to brush the stuff off himself. But that couldn’t be bat droppings — no bat could let loose that much at once, could it? _Gross, Lily_.

“ _Scourgify_ ,” she gasped, finally locating her wand. The awful sensation finally vanished. She raised her wand to cast the spell on Dex too, but he was...chewing? _Oh, Merlin_. She was going to be sick.

“It’s...pie,” said Dex, sounding puzzled. 

A sneaking suspicion came over Lily. She looked up — and there it was, an upside-down plate, bobbing up and down as if cheered by its success. And down the corridor, staring at them, was James Potter.

“Dex,” Lily said with quiet fury, “you should leave.”

The boyfriend registered James a moment after Lily had.

“For fuck’s sake, Potter,” he spat.

James put his hands up in surrender. “I just got here. If you’re suggesting I had anything to do with that—”

“Yeah, I’m suggesting that! I’m not thick, all right?”

“Could’ve fooled me,” said James, shrugging. “What part of ‘I didn’t do anything’ is too complicated for you to grasp?”

By his own reckoning, James was a fairly quick draw. He’d needed to be in the past, having made enemies of so many Slytherins alone that he had to be able to fling back a hex of his own with little forewarning. He considered reaching for his wand at this point, though he was unsure if Fortescue would go that route. Merlin, duelling Evans’s boyfriend had _not_ been in his plans.

But if he looked angry, she was positively murderous.

“You should really leave,” she said. “I’ll handle this.”

Fortescue looked between the two of them. Apparently deciding he liked Lily’s chances, he retreated down the hallway.

“Really heroic boyfriend you’ve got there,” Potter said, watching Dex go.

“I don’t need protecting,” retorted Lily. There were several feet between them in the empty corridor. Lily was reminded of Edgar Bones and Aprylline Thorpe facing off — except she was a great deal less fond of the person opposite her.

“I didn’t say you did. All I said was—”

“Shut up!” Her shout made the Fat Lady jump a little; the woman in the portrait was apparently too riveted to chastise them. Showing excellent self-preservation instincts, Potter closed his mouth. 

Lily clenched her hands into fists. “Was it me you were trying to hit? Or Dex?”

Potter worked his jaw. “Who’s to say it wasn’t a two-for?”

“Don’t _test_ me, James Potter,” she warned. “I’ve had a bloody short tolerance for you since that day by the lake.”

He grew very still. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lily knew she was red with anger — and embarrassment, she realised. She did not want to reminisce about that day with _him_ — not like this, not ever.

“If you’re — obsessed with me, or-or _in love_ with me, this is a terrible way to show it! And you can be absolutely certain I won’t return your — fucked-up feelings!”

He gave a short laugh. “Right, because everyone’s in love with Lily Evans. Get over yourself. Not everything that goes on around here is about you, _or_ any of your business.” Lily scoffed. “You heard me.”

“I’m sorry, I thought _I_ was the one you dropped a pie on! Are you now the victim here?”

“No, I see you’ve got that part well covered,” he bit back. 

An incredulous laugh bubbled up her throat. “Oh, fuck _you_. Just stay away from me, all right?” Striding up to the Fat Lady, Lily barked, “Stop eavesdropping! _Gossamer!_ ” The portrait swung open, though the Fat Lady looked terribly offended — Lily supposed she’d have to apologise later. But she wasn’t feeling particularly apologetic just yet.

James watched Lily disappear through the portrait hole, leaving him alone in the corridor.

“Will you be going in as well?” the Fat Lady said snippily.

“Not yet, thanks,” he said, equally cool. With a harrumph, the portrait swung back over its hole. Shoving his hands back in his pockets, he walked on. He wasn’t going anywhere specific, but he knew he did not want to be near _her_ anytime soon. Of course, he didn’t need to be. His mind had a spectacular ability to replay the sound of her voice. _Fucked-up feelings, fucked-up feelings_ , Lily sang in his head. 

“Oh, shut up,” he said aloud.

At least it would be easier to avoid her now that she had expressly commanded him to.

Saturday mornings were a bad idea after all.

* * *

_ii. Sweet Birthday Baby_

Germaine’s birthday was on a Monday, so it was a good thing she wasn’t superstitious. If she were, she would think it a terrible omen for how her year would go on. As it was, she sat in the greenhouses for their morning Herbology lesson and thought her bones were going to jump right out of her body. _Your flesh-prison_ , her awful brain supplied. 

This was why she hated classes that gave her time to think. 

Germaine hadn’t always been averse to the quiet. But as much as she loved Hogwarts, her time at school overlapped with winter too much for her to consider it a wholly positive few months. Nothing made her stir-crazy like the cold — and her late-September birthday heralded days of being cooped up inside the castle for warmth. 

Her sister Abigail worked at the Ministry of Magic, secretary to some fuddy-duddy in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The prospect of a job like Abigail’s was sheer torture to Germaine. She didn’t know what sort of career she would pursue — she would like to travel, she thought, but she had no particular destination in mind. Another witch might’ve panicked at this uncertainty, but not Germaine. The open-ended possibility of her future both excited and comforted her. 

At least, that was what she reminded herself on days when it felt like she was dreaming of running away. 

She was not like Dorcas, who was principled and sweet and outraged by injustice. She was not like Mary, who was flamboyant and self-assured and certain of her dreams. She was not like Lily, who was passionate and vivacious and believed in good. Germaine saw herself as a happy medium, flexible enough to stretch sympathetically between her friends. But— _What does it mean that I define myself in comparison to them?_

Nothing. She was only seventeen and she was finding her way. She had tried to be a Gemma a week ago, but she had already discarded that nickname with ease. And that was all right to Germaine. 

At lunchtime, having successfully wrangled enough Snargaluff pods to satisfy Professor Sprout, the girls savoured their food and their upcoming afternoon off. 

“I won’t ever get tired of free periods,” Doe said happily. 

“Mmm.” Germaine was picking at her own lunch. The jittery feeling had stayed with her all morning. 

Lily put her hand on Germaine’s arm. “Are you all right? Is it the Germaine blues?”

Germaine smiled at her concern. “A little, yeah. It doesn’t quite feel like my birthday.”

Her friends all immediately looked remorseful. Germaine hurried to add, “No, it’s not your fault. It’s the trouble of having a birthday so early in the school year—”

Mary was shaking her head. “I knew we should’ve thrown a party… Germaine, do you want a party?”

“ _You_ want a party,” Doe said dryly. 

Germaine sighed. “That’s not it. Really, don’t worry. So long as you’re all coming for afternoon Quidditch?”

Rather than a party, which Mary and Lily preferred, or a small get-together, as Doe would have it, Germaine’s birthday celebration of choice was a Quidditch scrimmage. They had kept up this tradition since their third year, when the four girls had properly become friends. Despite the various levels of Quidditch experience between them, the game was always a welcome break to September’s flurry of activity. Germaine had enough vague acquaintances to fill two seven-a-side teams. 

“Of course we’ll be there,” Doe said. 

“Even though I’ll get my arse kicked, as always,” said Mary with a sigh. 

Germaine turned to Lily. “You too?” Hesitantly, she added, “Potter will be there…”

Lily made a face. “I can deal with him for one afternoon.”

“Are you positive? I can un-invite him.”

“Oh, don’t bother. It’s your birthday, love.” 

The others had heard a blow-by-blow account of that weekend’s argument between Lily and James by then. The two had managed not to be in the same room since, barring classes, in which they sat as far apart as physically possible. Germaine studied Lily but her friend was impassive — there was no way to tell how much she actually minded having to socialise with him. 

“I think I’m going to head down to the pitch,” Germaine said, the words leaving her mouth before she had fully processed her intention.

“Already?” Mary said.

“Yeah, just to… fly around, I dunno. I need to shake off this weird mood.”

The others exchanged a glance.

“Sure, if that’s what you like,” said Doe. “We’ll have lots of fun playing Quidditch, and then after dinner we can have a dance party to ABBA, all right?”

Germaine laughed. “You really know me well.”

She could feel the ennui burning out of her system as she bounded to the pitch, her Cleansweep in hand. It was a warm afternoon, but not so sunny that being in the air would be unbearable. Just a few lazy laps, and her friends would join, and everything would be all right again… Germaine had just about erased the memory of that morning’s post from her mind. _Just about_.

When she got closer to the pitch, though, she saw that someone else was already there. Germaine felt a twinge of annoyance — she’d asked James to book their scrimmage with Madam Hooch, so the pitch was theirs by rights. And yet a tiny figure soared above her. Germaine recognised the pattern to the stranger’s flight after a moment: from the goalposts to the edge of the scoring area then back, then to the central circle and back, then to the opposite scoring area… It was an aerial shuttle run. Whoever this person was, they were flying with purpose.

Germaine held her irritation at bay for a moment and simply watched. The stranger was _fast_ and had remarkably fluid turns, which was a more difficult feat on a broom than it looked to be. She didn’t have a stopwatch at hand, but she guessed that she herself flew at that speed — the breakneck pace every Seeker had to have control over and comfort with. 

All of a sudden the flier dipped out of their drill and carved a lazy arc through the air. The change reminded Germaine that this leisurely flying had been _her_ aim today. 

“Hey!” she shouted, waving her arms. “Hey, I’ve got the pitch booked!”

But the person did not seem to hear.

 _Oh, for fuck’s sake_. Mounting her broom, Germaine sped towards the stranger. Once she got closer, she realised it was a girl, her dark plait rippling out behind her. 

“Hello? I’m talking to you!” Germaine said.

Perhaps she wasn’t close enough. Clicking her tongue in annoyance, she caught up to the girl and copied her slow loop-de-loop. At the peak of their circle, Germaine and the girl hung mere feet apart for a handful of seconds, their gazes meeting. The girl’s eyes were wide with surprise. Germaine arched her brows. And then they spun downwards. 

Germaine expected the girl to stop, or to pull up into the same loop-de-loop again. Instead, she reached the nadir of her trajectory and then shot upwards in a near-vertical climb. Germaine could do nothing but follow. She had forgotten to tie back her hair, and its tendrils whipped at her cheeks. 

“Would you _slow down_?” she tried to say, but the roaring wind swallowed her words easily. 

The girl pointed the nose of her broom downwards once more and Germaine did too, feeling her stomach drop and her head grow pleasantly light. She was concentrating so hard on predicting what the girl would do next, she forgot to think of anything else at all. They zigzagged side by side for a time. Then the girl lurched aggressively towards Germaine, who jerked away just in time to stay parallel with her. 

Now flying the breadth of the pitch, the girl and Germaine were gently descending — and then the girl turned inwards, so she was flying a tight spiral. _Enough games._ Instead of just tailing her, Germaine shot down the middle of her helical flight pattern, and then braked sharply. The girl had to execute a barrel roll to avoid a collision — though she made even that look graceful. She and Germaine were finally still, their brooms nose to nose, breathing hard.

The girl’s tight plait had unravelled, and damp strands of her hair framed her heart-shaped face. She looked familiar — Germaine was positive she knew her — but she had no idea _who_ she was… Her tie was off and she had discarded her robes, so Germaine couldn’t say what house she was in.

“What are you playing at?” the girl demanded.

Germaine blinked. “Me? What am _I_ playing at?”

“Yes, you!”

“You’re the one who wouldn’t stop when I called out to you! You led me on a wild goose chase!”

The girl’s flint-grey eyes flashed. “You _followed_.”

Germaine was so incredulous at this line of questioning that all she could do was splutter in disbelief.

“What do you want from me, then?” the girl said. If they had been on the ground, Germaine imagined she would be tapping her foot in impatience.

“I _want_ ,” said Germaine, enunciating through clenched teeth, “you to leave the pitch. I have it booked, so you’re not supposed to be here.”

Whatever the girl had expected her to say, it clearly wasn’t this. She sniffed.

“Could’ve said so earlier.”

“I did!” 

But the girl was already turning away, speeding off towards the stands. Germaine watched her go, shaking her head. She had no idea what to make of this bizarre interaction. If the girl’s skill was any indication, though, Germaine had a feeling she would be seeing her on the pitch again. 

Distant voices caught her attention: three little figures stood some distance away, waving. Recognising Lily, Mary, and Dorcas, Germaine flew towards them, still puzzling over the strange girl and her brusque manner.

“We’re ready,” said Doe, huffing and puffing. The girls had carried in the trunk of equipment, though they hadn’t thought to bring brooms of their own. Germaine swallowed a smile — her poor, Quidditch-averse friends. “And we brought your presents!”

Germaine dismounted, pulling them all into a hug. “You’re all so sweet and you know I love you—”

“Germaaaine, you’re sweaty!”

She accepted the three gifts. It was abundantly clear who had given her what. One was wrapped in shimmering gold paper and tied off with a red ribbon, in what had to be Doe’s handiwork. Another was wrapped in brown paper, but tied in the same red ribbon — Lily’s, obviously; she must have started her wrapping and only then realised she had no ribbon… Mary’s was not wrapped at all, but in a gift bag stuffed with glittery crepe paper. 

“I love them so much.”

“You haven’t even seen what they are!” Lily laughed.

But this was also Germaine’s way: presents were to be opened in the last hour of her birthday, on her bed. She had even saved the parcel her parents had sent her that morning, though she could already guess what it was — a watch, as was wizarding tradition. Germaine put all thoughts of that aside, though, because that reminded her of the letter… 

Mary was peering over Germaine’s shoulder. “Oi, who was that person you were talking to?”

Germaine blinked. “Oh… I didn’t actually ask her name. I just told her to leave, since we were going to be using the pitch.

“You could’ve invited her to join,” Lily pointed out. “It’s not like this is a proper practice.”

The thought hadn’t even occurred to Germaine. Based on the girl's attitude, the invitation would have gone over poorly. Rather than get into all that, she said, “We already have enough people for two teams. It’d be weird.”

Lily gave her a searching look but didn’t press the matter. “Well, never mind. Can we get me on a broom before anyone else shows up? It’s been a year and I’m probably going to be terribly rusty…”

* * *

_iii. Thorpe the Elder_

The evening after Germaine’s birthday, the girls had carved out a space in the common room by the much-coveted record player. It was currently blasting the new record Mary had bought her; though they had all heard the songs on _Abba_ on the radio by then, there was a special thrill in letting “S.O.S.” warble through Gryffindor Tower. The Wizarding Wireless Network was awfully lacking in Muggle hits, as Mary frequently complained. 

In fact, _Abba_ had kept them up late the previous night too — much to Sara’s dismay — and had resulted in a rushed breakfast that morning. Doe simply would not be late to Thorpe’s class, and she had been so agitated at the prospect that the others had hurried too just so she would calm down. So Doe and Lily had missed their morning perusal of the _Prophet_ , and only then did they spread out the paper to see the massive headline on the front page.

TAVISH’S EMPTY SEAT FILLED: CROUCH TO HEAD DMLE.

“Wow,” murmured Doe. “So they’re finally doing something.”

Lily gnawed at her lip as she read. The craggy, stern face of Bartemius Crouch looked back at both of them from his photograph. His eyes were disturbingly bright; his mouth was set in a grim line below his moustache. He certainly _looked_ capable of shutting down Death Eater activity… 

“He talks big,” Lily said. “Look here… _I believe we must fight fire with fire to protect witches and wizards everywhere_ … Gosh.”

“Old news,” called Sirius from where he and James were sitting, at the other end of the common room. He had to raise his voice to be heard over “Mamma Mia.” “Crouch was a gimme the moment Minchum became Minister, they’re the same type. Besides, all the Ministry hardliners have been singing his praises for months.”

“ _You_ read the _papers_?” snorted Germaine. “What has the world come to, indeed?”

“Do you think he’ll do as he promises?” said Doe.

Sirius shrugged. “All I know is his mum was a Black, but _he’s_ far from a blood purist. Prongs would know better.” 

He nudged James, who had clearly been trying to stay out of the conversation. Lily looked down at the carpet when James lifted his head, silly as she felt doing it. 

“What? Oh, Crouch. Mum and Dad run in the same circles as him, though they don’t particularly like him. He’s not very friendly. But…”

Lily chanced a glance upward. James’s brow was furrowed in thought.

“...I mean, he’s forceful enough for the job, I suppose.” 

“Hold on,” Germaine said, loudly. “ _Hold_ on. What’s his name?”

She had scrambled to her feet to turn down the record player.

Sirius rolled his eyes. “ _Barty Crouch_. Blimey, Germ.”

Germaine clapped a hand over her mouth. “Big news soon,” she mumbled. “Big news soon, that’s what Abigail said, only she didn’t say what big news…”

“You’re being weird, Germaine,” Doe said. “Spit it out!”

But Lily thought she could guess where this was going. “Is Abigail — your sister — Bartemius Crouch’s secretary?”

“I-I think so.”

Mary whistled, dropping her head onto the carpet with a thump. “That’s a big promotion, if he’ll keep her around. Abigail can tell us all the insider info.”

Germaine scoffed at that, though traces of shock still lingered on her face. “Please. She didn’t even tell me her boss was going to be named head of the DMLE. She isn’t telling anyone squat.”

“Well, give our congratulations to Abigail,” said Doe, reaching for the paper to skim it again. “And time will tell how Crouch does. We’ll have to wait and— what the _fuck_.” She slapped a hand onto the _Prophet_ as if to pin it in place. “What the _fuck!_ ”

“What is it now?” Mary said, rolling over to face her.

“They’ve interviewed a bunch of people about Crouch’s appointment. Lots of Ministry folks expressing approval — just like you said, Black. But listen to this.” Doe cleared her throat.

“ _Mr. Crouch is not unique to the DMLE in his failings. Those failings all stem from a refusal to accept a fundamental truth about magical society: the greatest danger posed to us is not by the so-called Death Eaters, but the dilution of magic caused by the influx of non-magical peoples into our world. Until this concern — shared by well-bred, upstanding families across Britain — is adequately addressed, I have little hope that the DMLE, Minister Minchum, or anyone at all at the Ministry is in fact working for us, witches and wizards of Britain_.”

An uncomfortable hush fell over them. Germaine smacked a hand on the record player, cutting off ABBA with a loud click. Doe pushed the paper away from herself and sat up.

“How could they print that?” said Lily, her throat tight with anger. “How could they put that bigoted bullshit on the front page — and all that rot about upstanding families! That’s-that’s—”

Sirius and James both walked to where the girls were, their expressions dark. Lily did not even remember to be angry at the latter as they sat down on the carpet.

“Who said that,” said James quietly. “Who’d they quote?”

“Let me see — in a written statement to the _Prophet_ …” Doe trailed off, her eyes growing huge.

Sirius was scowling. “Well, who is it?”

She handed them the paper as she spoke, looking around at each of the expectant girls.

“Someone named Marcel Thorpe. Radio personality.”

Lily shook her head. Her mind was struggling to keep up with all these developments. First Crouch, then Abigail… now this drivel in the _Prophet_ … 

“Thorpe as in the professor?” she said.

“Odds are they’re related, I guess,” Germaine said. She had gone pale, and was fidgeting with her hands. “She was so blunt in class too…”

“This might shock you, but family isn’t everything,” said Sirius dryly. 

James was squinting at the article. “They’re practically giving him free publicity. I mean, who is he? His show isn’t even on the WWN.”

Doe was still wide-eyed, staring into space. Mary scooted closer to her and took her hand.

“What’s his show called?” she said, her voice icy. “I’ll bet the fucker is irrelevant.”

“Creatively enough, it’s just _The Thorpe Hour_. And you’re in luck,” said James, getting to his feet. “Apparently his show starts...five minutes ago.”

They all watched in silence as James strode over to the common room’s radio, bringing it to their spot on the carpet. He spent a few seconds turning the dial; snatches of news broadcasts and music faded into static. And then, there was a pleasant chime.

“Welcome back, listeners, you’re tuned in to _The Thorpe Hour_ ,” said a deep, velvet-soft voice. “I’m Marcel Thorpe. It’s been a big day at the Ministry, what with Crouch’s DMLE promotion. I’ve already wrapped up my thoughts on the matter, but for a quick summary the _Daily Prophet_ has my quote. I want to get at the planned topic of the day and take your calls.

“For first-time listeners, I mentioned last week that I wanted to touch on an often-overlooked issue when considering the problem of Muggleborns—”

Lily let out an involuntary hiss, though she resisted saying anything. She wasn’t sure there was a _good_ way to end that sentence, but she didn’t want to miss what Thorpe said next.

“If you’re unsure how to feel about the presence of Muggleborns in wizarding society, you have only to consider Hogwarts,” Thorpe was saying. “Now, unless you’ve been schooled in magic at home or you were never told this while at school yourself, you'll know that Hogwarts does not charge its admits a flat fee. It has operated this way since it was founded, so as to allow _disadvantaged_ students a fair shot at magical education.”

They all flinched at his derisive pronouncement of the word “disadvantaged.” Sirius swore softly under his breath.

“The Ministry of Magic endows the school, of course. But Hogwarts is pay-what-you-can. I know, folks — _pay what you can!_ The cream of the crop of wizarding Britain educates their children at Hogwarts, and of course donates generously to the school. For less well-off families, well, the Hogwarts name still means something — it’s still where Grandfather and Grandmother were taught, you know, and it’s a point of pride for such families to pay for their children’s education. 

“My family has been educated at Hogwarts for generations. I sent my daughter to Hogwarts, a decade or so ago, and I bloody well paid! I didn’t _have_ to, see, but I _did_. It’s about shared responsibility. Now, do you think Muggles — completely non-magical folk, who have no idea how our world works — are going to _pay_ to send their children to Hogwarts? Do you think they do?

“I hate to say this, but they do _not_. They don’t know a Knut from a rat dropping! I don’t mean to be crude, but it’s a fact! That’s right, they are _benefitting_ from magical education that _we_ are paying for — that our Ministry pays for — and all the while their children are simply not as talented as ours. That’s a fact, studies have been done on the subject.

Thorpe’s voice had mostly remained steady so far, but it rose in passion now. “Think about that again for a moment. They are _stealing_ — look, I have the greatest respect for professors at Hogwarts, the utmost respect for Albus Dumbledore no matter how much I disagree with him. But those extremely well-connected, qualified professors are being drawn away from _your_ children, who _deserve_ their attention, in order to help struggling, barely-magical Muggleborns who don’t pay a—”

“Turn that _off_ ,” said Germaine loudly. The others looked at her, surprised by the force in her voice. Two bright spots of colour had appeared in her cheeks. James obeyed without argument, and the common room was silent again.

“He’s a liar,” Germaine went on. 

Mary sat up slowly. “We know, love. We all know that—”

“No, listen! Mum and Dad have never...have never had a lot, and I know that. If they’d had to pay tuition for Abigail and me they wouldn’t have been able to. We’d have learned magic from Mum. I know they don’t pay at all now, and it makes them feel _so_ awful. All that bullshit about what a point of pride it is for people to pay Hogwarts — my parents don’t pay, and they’re both magical! Mum’s pure-blooded! It’s just — _bullshit_ and people are lapping it up — all to excuse their prejudice—”

“Oh, come here,” Lily said, and Germaine sagged into her arms. Feeling terribly cold despite the heat of her friend’s body, Lily smoothed a hand over Germaine’s hair in comfort. “People know better than to follow his twisted logic.” She hoped she sounded convincing enough. The truth was, Lily was hardly sure _what_ people believed; she met Mary’s gaze and saw her grim feelings reflected there.

“Yeah, he sounds like a nutter,” said Mary, giving Germaine a quick, reassuring smile. 

“I’m going to listen every fucking week and call in,” Doe said furiously. “And when I’m through arguing with him he’ll be sorry he ever started a stupid radio show.”

“ _I’m_ sorry you had to sit here listening to this trash,” said James, his voice oddly hoarse. His Adam’s apple bobbed visibly as he swallowed; his jaw was clenched. Lily looked at him, surprised. She had never seen him so serious — angry, yes, but not quite so outraged. He glanced from Lily to Mary and shook his head. “If I ever caught sight of this prick, well. I don’t know what I’d do.”

 _I know what you’d do_ , Lily thought suddenly, the memory flitting into her mind’s eye. “Apologise to Evans!” he’d shouted, the tip of his wand pointed right at Severus. But to go down that road was to invite pain… Lily blinked the thought away and inhaled shakily. 

“Well, we have a pretty good idea of how he might be related to Professor Thorpe,” Mary said. “He said his daughter went to Hogwarts around a decade ago; that fits with her career. God, I wonder what their family dinners must be like.”

Sirius snorted. “I never thought I’d have this much in common with a professor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there goes my update a day streak. hopefully this extra long chapter makes up for it. this was written to "no more looking back" by the kinks and "honey, honey," and revised to "helter skelter" by the beatles.
> 
> and i've already tweaked canon, starting in chapter three. jkr tweeted that hogwarts is free, apparently, throwing thorpe sr's whole bit into the gutter, so i decided to ignore that, haha. or maybe it becomes totally free sometime in the 80s...
> 
> i promise james and lily will have a fluffy scene...soon. the next (also long) chapter is called "nothing to write home about," so make of that what you will!
> 
> leave a comment, please, so i'm motivated to write as much as possible before i go off to college again!
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	4. Nothing to Write Home About

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Germaine receives bad news from her parents, but keeps it to herself. James spends the summer hooking up with his cousin's friend Mélanie, in the hopes of getting over Lily. The Marauders' food prank results in Lily and her boyfriend Dex getting a pie over the head; Lily is furious at James for it. They argue, and are not speaking to each other. Mary tells Dorcas she wants to try seeing a nice boy for once.
> 
> NOW: Sirius gets bad news — and indecipherable news. Lily can't sleep, and runs into someone unexpected. Mary confesses the truth to Doe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are love, hugs, and Jily feels.

_i. Letters_

From Lily Evans to Petunia Evans, discarded drafts:

> ~~_Dear_ ~~ _Petunia,_
> 
> _No, that’s too rude, isn’t it?_

> _Dear Petunia,_
> 
> _How are you doing? I’m well. School is fine. We’re learning such interesting things now that we’re in the sixth year. For instance, we’re preparing to brew the Draught of Living Death in Potions, which is supposed to be extremely challenging. Professor Slughorn says he has faith in me, which isn’t as reassuring as he’d like it to sound._
> 
> _Severus and I were paired up in Charms, and he’s really good at nonverbal spells all of a sudden. I asked him if he’d been practising. He told me not to ask him questions, since we’re not friends anymore. I’m so tired._
> 
> _But of course, you don’t care about any of this, do you? I’ll start over._

> _Dear Petunia,_
> 
> _I hope you and Vernon are doing well. How is work? I hope you are working on something interesting. I hope Mum is doing well too. She looked a bit tired towards the end of the summer. I hope she’s okay._
> 
> _Oh, hell._

From Mary Macdonald to Ruolan Li Macdonald and Clyde Macdonald:

> _Dear Mum and Dad,_
> 
> _Kisses, I hope everything’s all right! Thank you so much for the flowers. We’ve put them in a vase in the dorm, they brighten things up beautifully. You weren’t kidding when you said the garden is coming along well. (Dad, make sure Mum isn’t working too hard.) Honestly, I couldn’t have grown better ones myself, even with magic._
> 
> _Classes are all fine. I know all the details go over your heads, but our lectures have become fairly advanced now. I’m keeping up, though. And the girls are all doing well too. They send their love._
> 
> _Say hi to waipo and waigong for me. Take care!_
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Mary_

From Mary Macdonald to Andrew Macdonald:

> _Hi Andrew,_
> 
> _Mum says you’re saving up for the new Queen record. PLEASE get me one too. I will love you forever and ever and ever. And I’ll get you something from the wizard joke shop near school, so long as you promise not to show anyone. PLEASE._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Your favourite big sister_

From James Potter to Euphemia and Fleamont Potter:

> _Dear Mum and Dad,_
> 
> _As you know, everything is absolutely fine here. I am extremely well-behaved and continue to impress the pants off all my professors. Well, at least part of that’s true. Quidditch starts up again soon, and we play Slytherin first. They tried to get it postponed — some tosh about two of their players being injured, which is convenient — but they were shut down. Accidents are part of the Quidditch season, Hooch told them. I wish I’d photographed their faces._
> 
> _I hope all’s well with you. How about Crouch at the DMLE, eh? Not that I’m ever interested in your society hobnobbing, but if there’s a dinner he’s going to be at over the winter hols, I will maybe be all right with coming along. No promises. But I’m curious._
> 
> _Take care, you crazy animals._
> 
> _James_

From James Potter to Mélanie Deschamps-Gill, discarded drafts:

> _Dear Mel,_
> 
> _Dear? Is that too much?_

> _Hi Mel,_
> 
> _How are you? Have you and Shruti started on your round-the-world trip yet?_
> 
> _Fuck, what else do I even say?_

From Alphard Black to Sirius Black:

> _Dear Sirius,_
> 
> _I am glad to hear that you had a good summer and are back at Hogwarts. Perhaps it’s for the best that you kept away from home as much as possible. I do think you are far more grounded when you are with your friends rather than Walburga and Orion. Although I know “grounded” isn’t a flattering description to a boy like you!_
> 
> _In any case, I must be the bearer of bad news. Though I’ve had a relatively good few months, my illness has taken a turn for the worse. By the time you get this letter I will have already been to St. Mungo’s for another evaluation. I will write to you again with an update. But considering how much convincing it took for them to allow me to convalesce at home this summer, I expect I will be shifted to the hospital shortly._
> 
> _I know hearing this will distress you, but I want to reassure you again: I am a very old man and I have lived a long, fulfilling life. My only wish is that you can do the same. Even though you consider your differences with your parents to be irreconcilable — a feeling I respect and agree with — I urge you to reach out to Regulus once more. He hasn’t written me in a while, and I worry about your mother’s influence on him. More than anything, Sirius, I see in him what I saw in you: the potential for real good despite years of hurt and loneliness. You have your friends to help you stay in the light. Please, try to be that help for your brother. Indulge an old man his fancies._
> 
> _Sending you my very best,_
> 
> _Alphard_

From Germaine King to Abigail King, discarded drafts:

> _Dear Abigail,_
> 
> _What the fuck? Why didn’t you tell me sooner? And don’t give me your excuses, I know they told you first_

> _Abigail,_
> 
> _I AM ANGRY_

> _Dear Abigail,_
> 
> _Congratulations on the promotion, which I found out about from the Daily Prophet! Funny how you don’t tell me things. It’s become a pattern of late. And I DON’T LIKE IT_

* * *

_ii. Speaking in Tongues_

“Every week,” Dorcas said, shaking her head as she put away her notes. “Every week I walk into this classroom and think, ‘You know, today’s the day Anderberg lets us off _without_ ridiculous amounts of homework.’”

“Yeah, well,” said the boy next to her, mirroring her despondence. “Repeating the same mistake over and over and expecting a different result is supposed to be the first sign of madness.”

Doe laughed, shoving him gently. “And who are you calling mad, Michael Meadowes? The cheek of you.”

Michael grinned back at her. “Then I take it back, Dorcas Walker. Will you let me make it up to you by _walk_ ing you out of class?”

“For that joke, I should say no and never speak to you again.”

Rolling her eyes at him, Doe made for the door, with Michael at her heels. 

“Oh, I don’t think I can work on the essay this afternoon,” he said. 

“But you promised!” Doe groaned.

He sighed. “I know I did, and I feel awful about it. But I’ve put off Transfiguration homework for far too long, and then there’s Charms too…”

They had not moved from the corridor right outside the Ancient Runes classroom. The other students had all trickled out; the hallway was quiet now, and Professor Anderberg, muttering under his breath, peered at them suspiciously before slamming the classroom door shut.

“I can help you with Transfiguration,” Doe said.

Michael gave her a look. “You said you finished that over the weekend.”

She coughed, embarrassed and pleased at once. “Well, I did…”

“I don’t want to hold you back, Dorcas. You’ve probably got loads of other stuff to work on.”

“Well, I suppose I do.”

“How about after Charms tomorrow?” Michael said, flipping through his notes to produce his schedule. “I think we’re both free then. We’ve got until next Tuesday to do this essay after all.”

Dorcas laughed. “You carry your schedule around?”

Michael blinked at her. “Obviously. Don’t you?”

“I’ve probably lost mine. The information’s all up here.” She tapped her forehead, grinning.

Michael rolled his eyes. “All right, go ahead, brag about that big brain of yours. Some of us have to try hard, you know.”

“No, you just enjoy being a swot.”

“Team swot pride, that’s me.”

Doe joined in his laughter. “I think after Charms works, though. Library?”

“Always. It’s a plan.”

Dorcas spotted a familiar figure making her way up the corridor, looking rather lost. “Mary?” she called. “What are you doing here?”

Infinitely relieved, Mary hurried to Doe’s side. “Looking for you, in fact. This classroom is in the middle of _nowhere_.” 

She peered at the Ravenclaw standing by her friend. He was a little above average height, with a mop of dusty brown curls and a smattering of freckles. _Cute_ , she decided.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“Oh! Gosh, how rude of me — Mary, this is Michael Meadowes. He takes Ancient Runes too.” Doe gave the boy a sly smile. “Ever since Germaine dropped it, I’ve had to make do with his company.”

Michael shook his head, feigning offence. “And to think that just minutes ago, _you_ were pleading with _me_ to work on our essays together. Fie.”

“Hush. Michael, Mary is my roommate and most chaotic best friend.”

“Such high praise,” Mary said, elbowing Doe. 

She appraised Michael once more — yes, he really _was_ cute. Mary was as a rule sceptical of boys who supposedly _grew on you_ , but she could believe such a thing about him. 

“I’ll let you two catch up,” said Michael. “Dorcas, see you tomorrow after Charms?”

“Yes, bye, Michael!”

As he retreated down the corridor, Mary linked her arm with Doe’s. 

“Dork-ass, that boy’s quite dishy. Where have you been hiding him?”

Doe looked genuinely surprised. “What? Michael? You really think so?”

“Yes, of course. How long have you been friends? You need to make your move, darling.”

“I don’t think we’re friends, Mare.” Doe was frowning slightly. “I mean, we’re friend _ly_. But we only ever hang out in class or in the library.”

“Well, that’s how friendship starts,” Mary pointed out. 

Doe seemed unconvinced. “I guess so…”

With unspoken agreement, they began to walk towards Gryffindor Tower.

Mary said, “How come I’ve never seen him around?” 

This was one of the reasons Mary was intrigued by this Michael. If she hadn’t seen him around, she definitely hadn’t snogged him before. She probably hadn’t seen him at an unsavoury social event. Ergo, he was more likely to be a _nice boy_. All promising signs.

“You definitely have,” said Doe. “He’s the Quidditch commentator.”

“Oh, is he? Yes, that makes sense. He has very pleasing enunciation.”

Doe burst into laughter. “Never change, Mare.”

The castle had grown noticeably more chill, announcing October’s arrival. The grounds were studded with reddening trees, Mary’s favourite schooltime sight. Not long now until the entire Forbidden Forest was a blaze of orange-red hues… 

“So, this whole nice boy scheme,” Doe said suddenly as they took the stairs to the seventh-floor corridor. 

This subject was not an awkward one to Mary, but something in her friend’s voice made her pause before she responded. 

“Yes?” she said, a touch cautious.

“What’s really behind it?”

Mary tried for a laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Doe held her gaze. “I’m not dense, Mary. We’ve been friends since our first year. Yeah, you _like_ boys, but this is excessive even for you. What’s going on?”

Mary stifled a sigh. Of course Dorcas’s bullshit meter had caught on to her. But she couldn’t have gone to Germaine, who only knew annoying Quidditch-playing boys, and she couldn’t have gone to Lily, who was, well, Lily. 

She decided to make one last attempt at innocence. “I don’t know—”

“ _Mary_. Are you thinking of one, specific boy?”

They were now in the Fat Lady’s corridor, which was remarkably empty for this time of day. Yes, everyone would be at lunch… But Mary would quite literally have died than have this conversation in the Great Hall. As it was her appetite was fading fast. 

She had hesitated too long; no doubt her real reaction was written all over her face. “Doe… just don’t tell anyone, all right?”

Doe’s eyes were round as saucers. “You know I won’t. But now _you_ have to tell me more. No one will be in the reading room, c’mon. _Gossamer_ ,” she said to the Fat Lady.

Mary held her tongue as they made their way to the little library area. A lone seventh-year was studying by the door, her head bent over a book. Perhaps they could go to the dorm instead — but no, what if the others came in?

Doe noticed her uncertainty. “Just follow me.” 

“ _Where_?”

But Doe held a finger to her lips and beckoned Mary over to the far wall. Aside from a bookshelf and a portrait of an imperious-looking witch on some kind of Arctic expedition, Mary couldn’t see anything of interest here. Then Doe bent her head to the portrait and whispered, “ _Aventine_.”

The witch, who had until then been standing quite still, straightened and smiled. Her portrait swung open.

“Oh my god,” Mary whispered. “What the hell?”

“Shh, just go in!” Doe had one eye on the studying seventh-year, who hadn’t yet looked up.

Making a face, Mary bunched up her robes and squeezed into the crawlspace. It was a mercifully short passage; by the time Dorcas slid in and the portrait swung shut behind her, Mary was already standing up in the room it led to. It had clearly been a bathroom some years back. Thick spiderwebs covered the higher sconces, but the immediate surroundings were fairly clean. 

“How on earth did you know how to get in here?” Her voice echoed through the space. It was quite drafty; Mary took out her wand and cast a simple heating spell.

Doe hopped onto the counter, looking very pleased with herself. “I saw Peter going in here sometime last year, and I cornered him when he came out. I made him show me the room. In exchange for me not telling anyone he keeps me updated on the passwords.”

“You’ve told me now.”

“Valeria Myriadd, she’s the witch in the portrait — I reckon she likes me a lot more than Peter. She was grinning while I was getting the information out of him. She’d tell me the password even if he doesn’t.” Doe patted the space on the counter next to her. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you have to tell me. Who’s the boy?”

“He’s nothing to write home about,” Mary mumbled, suddenly shy. She was not in the habit of having these conversations. Heartbreaks were for the brief reminder that life was short and love was hard, and then she moved on. And this wasn’t quite heartbreak…not yet.

“I’m sure that’s not true. You have high standards,” said Doe with a laugh.

Mary felt a lump in her throat. “Well it doesn’t matter because I’m not his type and he’d never go for me so all I can do is make him jealous but it doesn’t make me feel any better!”

Doe’s smile had faded at her tone. She took Mary’s hand. 

“Tell me about it, love.”

Mary shook her head. “I don’t want to tell you who he is. It’s...embarrassing.”

“Well, tell me the rest of it, then.”

“All right… I’ve always known who he is but we _really_ met at Evan Wronecki’s holiday party last year…”

* * *

_iii. I Think We’re Alone Now_

Mary had come alone to Evan’s party, but she hadn’t thought that would be a problem. Now, standing in his cavernous house surrounded by seventh-years she didn’t know, she was beginning to regret that decision. Lily and Germaine were spending Christmas at Hogwarts, but she could have convinced Dorcas to come with her. Well, it was too late now.

Evan, a sixth-year Gryffindor, had greeted her warmly and introduced her to the friends of his she hadn’t already met. She’d said hi to Sara, thinking she could hang around with her roommate, but Sara was chatting with Amelia bloody Bones, and Mary didn’t want to go _there_. 

So she had spent some time wandering from room to room. And of course things got worse: that awful Alec Rosier was there, and he gave Mary the shivers. He was in Ravenclaw, and was probably friends with a lot of Evan’s friends. Perhaps he was an all right bloke himself. But he was always hanging around Mary’s least favourite Slytherins, like _Mulciber_. And then she thought of Mulciber, and she was _really_ on edge. She’d broached the subject with Evan, who assured her _he_ hadn’t invited Rosier, but he didn’t want to make a scene and throw him out just yet.

Butterbeer in hand, Mary looked around for something to distract her. There was a wireless in a corner of the sitting room — perking up at the sight, she wove towards it through the crowd. There was no music playing, which seemed like terrible party planning to her. Mary flipped it on and tuned into the Witching Hour, the WWN’s music channel. Immediately she made a face; they were running some kind of jazz hour, and jazz was _fine_ but simply not the right mood.

“I suppose I couldn’t hope for _A Night at the Opera_ , but at least _Sheer Heart Attack_!” she grumbled.

“Who’s having a heart attack?”

She looked up, startled. The boy who’d spoken was leaning against the wall a few feet behind her, hands in his pocket. She had met him before, though she couldn’t remember where. He’d been wandering around the party too, looking bored as hell. Mary had noticed him and hoped she wasn’t quite so obvious. 

“No one,” she said. “It’s a Muggle record. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of Queen?”

The boy shook his head.

Mary sighed. “Just as well. Then we’d both be wishing we were listening to Queen right now.”

He scooted closer to her. “Why don’t you describe it to me?”

“What? Why on earth would you want me to do that?”

He shrugged. “Clearly you think it’s cool. I want to know more now.”

“Oh…” Mary wondered if this was some complicated kind of foreplay. The boy was _definitely_ handsome; she’d always thought so. She supposed she would go for him, if that was what he was getting at. But it was all very unclear… 

Talking about Queen was easy enough, though. If he really meant to hear her out, she was happy to get started. “Are you certain? I could go and on.”

He gestured at the party around them. “I’d rather talk about this than pay attention to anything else going on right now.”

Mary arched an eyebrow. “Well, since I’m the best of a bad lot… _Sheer Heart Attack_ is this band Queen’s album from a year ago. They’ve had another one since then, but it only just came out, so I haven’t had a good listen yet.”

“Does it take you a whole year to have a good listen?” 

“Of course.”

The boy grinned. “Of _course_. Carry on. Tell me about your favourite song.”

Mary did not have to pause to think. “Definitely “Killer Queen.” It’s incredible.”

“Sounds like a riot. Wait — let me get us drinks, and then you can tell me what the song sounds like,” the boy said.

“It’s nothing like listening to it,” Mary warned. 

“It’s the best I can get now, though, isn’t it?”

This bloke was _so_ odd.

She waited in the corner as he headed in the direction of the kitchen, tapping her fingers absentmindedly on her thigh. After a moment she realised she was tapping along to “Killer Queen” — and she was running through the song in her mind, as if to prepare for this conversation. 

She had certainly listened to it enough times to summon up the music, and many a holiday morning her brother would pound on the bathroom door as she sang it in the shower, telling her to shut up. She had been humming with her eyes closed for a good few minutes when she sensed someone next to her. The boy was back, a cup in each hand.

“Sorry, you seemed like you were having a moment. I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said, the sincerity of his words lightened by his smile.

Mary blushed a little and took the drink from him. “It’s all a part of the process.”

He gave her a mock-serious nod. “Walk me through it.”

“Well, it begins with this snapping. Like, just snapping, _one two three four_ , for six beats before the vocals come in. And then Freddie Mercury goes, ‘She keeps her Moet et Chandon—’ that’s, er, a kind of alcohol—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” the boy said, holding up a hand. “The singer’s name is Freddie _Mercury_? Is he a wizard?”

“As far as I know he’s a Muggle.” Mary imagined a magical Freddie Mercury for a moment, infinitely amused at the thought. “It’s a stage name, obviously. Keep up. Now the piano’s in the background too, and they do the verse with just Freddie, the piano, and the drums. But then you get to the chorus—” Mary waved her arms, trying to capture how the song seemed to open up. “—And his voice becomes this whole layered harmony, and he’s singing about the woman in the song. She’s a high-class escort, apparently, so she has all these expensive habits—”

To Mary’s pleasant surprise, the boy was nodding along, his face scrunched up in thought. _He really_ is _listening_. 

“Okay, why don’t you sing it?” 

“I just told you, it’s a whole chorus of voices,” said Mary with a half-laugh. She was a good singer, a former church choir girl, and she enjoyed picking out Freddie Mercury’s highest harmonies in her clear soprano. But she wasn’t used to doing so on command — and certainly not for boys.

“You don’t have to do all the voices at once,” the boy said. “Just do the main melody. Look, aren’t you supposed to be fearless or something? Mary Macdonald, she who dares to go where no witch has gone before?”

Mary had heard this last part before, but she thought the person who’d said it to her meant it as an innuendo. No need to mention that… There _was_ something flattering about hearing it from this particular boy, whose smirk was itself a challenge, who wasn’t the type to ever give her the time of day but had just listened to her ramble about her favourite band.

“Fine, I will,” she said. 

Another person might have sung in a low voice. Not Mary, who after all dared to go where no witch had gone before. She straightened her spine, looked the boy right in the eye, and began to sing. This was a song that required sassiness and a hint of scandal. After a while performing no longer took effort; Mary simply hit every _ooh_ and every teasing note as if she couldn’t have sung it any other way. Some of the other partygoers had given her strange looks, but no one else approached, and no one told her to stop.

“...and then it goes off into a short guitar solo bit, and fades out,” Mary finished, a little breathless both from excitement and exertion.

The boy raised his eyebrows. “To be honest, I didn’t think you’d actually start singing it. _Or_ that you’d sing all the way through.”

Mary laughed. “You challenged me! What was I going to do, say no?”

“Well, you’ve got a great voice. I don’t know what I’d have done if you’d done three minutes of that, but terribly.”

Mary’s jaw dropped. “You’d bloody well have listened and clapped at the end!”

The boy laughed and put his hands together in supplication, cup sandwiched between his palms. “Forgive my insolence! But now that I know how it goes, you can describe the rest of the song too, can’t you?”

Was this some sort of joke?

“I can,” Mary said dubiously. “If you want me to.”

“It sounds like a good song. Besides, I reckon you’d actually do the guitar solos, and I _really_ want to hear that.”

Eventually she had gone over every minute detail of “Killer Queen” — or at least she thought she had, because she had _also_ been drinking. Her mind was pleasantly fuddled. Very possibly she had been talking in circles for the past few minutes.

But the boy looked pleasantly fuddled too, and he was still listening. If this had been a prelude to getting in her pants, he was making no move to speed things up — and Mary found she was all right with that. Many boys were immediately, obviously shallow, and whatever mystery they held was easily solved. This boy was unlike any puzzle she’d handled before. 

“You know,” the boy said, when Mary’s explanation lapsed into silence, “I definitely haven’t understood anything you said in the past five minutes. I swear I’m listening, but alcohol makes me stupid, apparently.”

Mary giggled — a tipsy tendency of hers that she normally hated. “That’s all right. You didn’t tell me to shut up at any point, so that’s more than I was expecting.”

He snorted. “Are your standards for conversation _that_ low?”

“If I didn’t lower my standards, I’d never speak to anyone,” she replied airily. “Look, I kept the conversation going for ages. Now you tell me something you’re unhealthily obsessed with.”

The boy rolled his eyes but thought for a moment. “I don’t know about unhealthy obsessions. All that’s coming to mind is that I brewed what we’re drinking.”

“You did?” Mary eyed her cup with new suspicion. It was only her second drink, though she found the taste more pleasant than most alcohols. It was sweet and earthy at the same time — and not too dry. “Do I want to know what it’s made of?”

“Mainly fermented barley, so that’s nothing to be worried about,” said the boy. “The bit I’m proud of is just a minor ingredient. A cousin of mine got me some Chortle extract, which is supposed to have euphoric properties. That’s what they say, anyway. I had to test it on myself at first, which meant I spent an unfortunate number of days literally lying on the floor laughing at the shape of my fingers.”

Mary snorted. “I would never have pegged you for an experimental moonshine brewer, you know.”

“Wait,” Dorcas interrupted. “Was that a clue?”

“Was that a — what d’you mean?”

“Were you trying to give me a clue, so I can figure out who the guy is without you telling me directly?”

“This isn’t twenty bloody questions, Doe! And no, that was _not_ a clue! How would that have helped, anyway? Oh, now you know to search for a bloke who doesn’t seem like the type to brew his own alcohol?”

“...Shit.”

“Hey, we’ve all got our hidden depths.”

“Hmm. Yours are making me wonder if I should worry about _Chortle extract_.”

When he smiled, the corners of his eyes wrinkled in mirth. She was close enough to notice this about him. It was a funny thing to take in, because she could probably count on one hand the number of times she had seen him _smile_ — not simply level a cool, superior stare at whoever dared to speak to him — outside of this room. 

“I don’t know, should you?” the boy said. “Do you feel euphoric?”

His eyes were such a nice, cloudy grey. 

Mary heard herself say, “Are we going to kiss?”

He shrugged. “Why not?” 

And his voice was blasé but then he smiled, and slid his arms around her waist. Mary met him halfway, her own hands tangling in his hair. For all of his apparent lack of interest in flirting with her, he kissed like he meant it. She could taste the notes of his weird barley drink on his tongue; she wanted to pull him even closer. _Do you feel euphoric?_ Honestly, in that long, toe-curling moment, she did. When they came up for air, their faces were still inches apart.

“Well,” Mary said, grinning, “that was rather worth the wait.”

But of course, it was at that very moment that Evan called out to the boy. The boy released Mary. Evan came over — apparently too agitated to notice what he’d interrupted — and said Rosier was having an argument with someone in the kitchen, and it was getting heated, and would he come help? The boy and Mary both realised it must be serious. She had never known Evan to back away from a fight, in true Gryffindor fashion. The boy agreed to go help. He told Mary he would find her again. 

She waited for fifteen, then twenty, then thirty minutes. The fight was surely over. Evan had returned to the sitting room. But the boy was nowhere to be seen. Feeling miserable, she made a beeline for the front door, summoned the Knight Bus, and went home.

“One kiss?” Doe said, once Mary had finished speaking. “One kiss and you’ve been mad for this guy since _January_?” The whole story was so unlike Mary, she was tempted to ask if her friend was pulling her leg. 

But her expression was genuinely sombre.

“Who’s the sceptic now, Doe?” said Mary unhappily. “I’m just telling you what happened.”

“Well, didn’t you talk to him when we got back to school?”

“I tried to on the train! But he brushed me off.” She looked away. “I really thought he wanted to get to know me. That he wasn’t just going for me because...I’m me. I’m more than legs and tits, you know.”

“I know, love. I just can’t wrap my head around it.”

Doe resolved to consider all the information Mary had given her later. Evan Wronecki’s friend...presumably a now-seventh year… There weren’t quite so many boys at Hogwarts that she couldn’t figure out who the mysterious boy was. But what would she even do with that information? For whatever reason, Mary seemed unwilling to approach him again.

“It must be because I kiss like a slag,” said Mary.

“What?”

“I must kiss like a slag, and it turns people off!”

“Don’t be stupid, Mare. There’s no such thing as slaggy kissing — and you’ve every right to kiss how many ever boys you like — and why don’t you just _talk_ to him again?” Doe tried to meet her friend’s eyes. “It doesn’t seem fair to see someone else when you’re obviously torn up over him.”

Mary huffed out a breath. “I just want a proper rebound. Then I won’t feel so pathetic.”

This seemed terribly misguided to Doe. But Mary did as Mary wished…

“Okay,” she said finally. “Okay, I’ll help you. You’ll get over him, no problem.”

* * *

_iv. More Letters_

From Lily Evans to Doris Evans:

> _Dear Mum,_
> 
> _I hope you and Petunia are doing okay. Classes are in full swing, and I’m so enjoying the advanced-level stuff we’re covering now. We’re preparing to brew the Draught of Living Death in Potions — it’s only a sleeping draught, don’t panic — and it’s really tough going. Slughorn expects me to do well, so I have to give it my best. All my other classes are great too. Lots of nonverbal magic. At Easter I can show you how that works, since I’ll be of age by then!_
> 
> _The girls say hi and send you hugs. And remember the boy I told you about over the summer? I’ve been seeing him, he’s such a sweetheart — and a laugh too. His name is Dex. I know you’ll be dying for more information now, but a girl has to have her secrets. (I’ll tell you at Christmas.)_
> 
> _Please take care of yourself. And Petunia, I suppose, though she’s less important._
> 
> _Only joking!_
> 
> _Much love,_
> 
> _Lily_

From James Potter to Shruti Machado:

> _Dear Shruti,_
> 
> _All’s well at Hogwarts. I hope our crazy family hasn’t driven you up the wall yet — that’s my job. Have you and Mélanie left Mangalore yet? I swear I’ll only know when your owl takes six months to get back to me and you say you’ve been in Siberia or something._
> 
> _Say hi to Mel for me. And no, I don’t want to talk about it._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _James_

From Germaine King to William King:

> _Dear Dad,_
> 
> _Thanks so much for the watch, I love it. Don’t have much time to write. Things are busy here. Doing fine. Love you._
> 
> _Germaine_

From Dorcas Walker to Joseph and Ruth Walker:

> _Dear Mum and Dad,_
> 
> _Please stay safe. I’m always reading the news and thinking of you. Hope the shop’s doing well — have you added any security like you said you were thinking of doing? Write back soon._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Dorcas_

To Sirius Black, sender unknown:

> _BLACK:_
> 
> _YOUR LAST CHANCE_
> 
> _BLOOD_

* * *

_v. Golden Slumbers_

Lily couldn’t sleep. 

This was par for the course for her, really. It was the reason why her mornings were so painful, and why she spent so much bloody money on concealer. She had been plagued by night terrors for months after the death of her father, when she was thirteen. Though the terrors had eventually faded, they had been replaced by insomnia — a change Lily was grateful for on most days. Until she found herself lying in bed and unable to do anything but toss and turn, even though she could _feel_ the exhaustion heavy in her bones. This was one of those nights. 

She sighed and sat up, figuring she might as well send the letter she’d written that morning to her mother with her owl, Peppermint. The Owlery was not that far from the Fat Lady’s portrait. Lily knew that Filch did not usually poke around the West Tower — guessing, perhaps, that the school’s chief troublemakers had better places to be — and, well, if anyone _did_ come across her she could always point out that she was a prefect, and make up some important-sounding business she had to attend to. 

Shucking off the covers, Lily slipped on a dressing robe and slippers, and put the letter in her pocket. Her roommates were all asleep; when she cracked open the door, only Germaine stirred slightly and mumbled something. Lily squeezed her way to the staircase and bounded down to the common room. 

It was quite cold in the corridor. She paused for a moment to draw her robe tight around herself, and shivered a little.

“And why are you out and about at this hour?” the Fat Lady said. 

Lily tried to look pious and innocent. “Just some prefect stuff. I can’t sleep, so I might as well help keep the peace in the corridors…”

The Fat Lady looked deeply suspicious. But Lily had already begged for her forgiveness after she’d been so curt with her, and she knew the woman was fond of her. Fond enough to prefer sleep to questioning her, at least.

“Well, all right, if it won’t take long.”

Allowing herself a small grin, Lily took off towards the West Tower. 

She was greeted at the Owlery by a chorus of soft hooting. Peppermint, a small screech owl, nipped at her finger affectionately when she let him out of his cage. 

“Hello, dear,” she said, rubbing his head. “Take this to Mum, won’t you?” 

He stuck out his little leg for her to tie the letter to; with that job done, Peppermint happily took flight. Lily watched him until he was no longer distinguishable from the night sky. The moon was a nearly-full orb above her, bathing the Owlery in a silvery glow. She leaned into the gentle breeze and watched the moonlight shimmer on the lake’s surface, her mind blissfully empty. Soon the autumn would properly give way to the winter, and the moonlight would bounce flatly off the frozen lake.

At last she straightened and headed for the corridor. As much as she wanted to stay and watch the moon, it was simply too chilly to stand there for any longer. But Lily was now wide awake. She was certain that she would not be able to fall asleep if she went back to her dorm. _Oh, I’m back where I started!_

The Fat Lady was asleep in her portrait, her small mouth hanging open slightly. Without thinking, Lily tiptoed past the portrait, going further down the corridor. The reading room where she’d baked with Dex was in the next hallway — if she could make it there without running into anyone, she was certain she would be able to sleep amidst its cozy pillows. And with the fire crackling in the background too… 

Lily felt a little thrill at the prospect — and at the feeling of being out and about Hogwarts at night. She was not normally one to sneak around past curfew, of course. But she was beginning to understand the appeal. The stone corridors were all the more majestic in the silent torchlight, making her feel as if she were queen of the whole castle. 

Probably that was the sleep deprivation talking.

Didn’t Dex say you had to concentrate really hard for the room to show itself? Lily conjured up thoughts of the space as she rounded the corner, moving with purpose. But she rounded the corner to find that she was not the only one in the hallway. 

“Miss Evans,” said Professor Thorpe, rather wearily, “what are you doing out of bed too?”

“Er — prefect business,” Lily blurted out.

Thorpe just looked at her, dressing robe and all. “Right. Of course. Were you headed back to bed?”

Lily recognised an opening when she was offered one. “Y-yes…”

“Perfect. I can walk you to Gryffindor Tower.” Thorpe gestured for her to lead the way.

 _Shit_. Lily didn’t bother making excuses; she reckoned she was lucky enough to have escaped losing points, or worse, detention. Thorpe had been standing right opposite the tapestry too, where the door to the reading room had appeared… What if the professor had been trying to summon it too? If only she’d made her way inside first. But if Thorpe had found her _inside_ the room there would be no room for even her transparent white lies.

“Having trouble sleeping?” said Thorpe.

Lily jumped a bit at the sound of her voice. “Yes, professor.”

Thorpe nodded. “I know what that’s like. Have you tried counting Hippogriffs?”

She struggled to not roll her eyes before glancing at Thorpe and realising the witch was joking. Her mouth was tipped in a half-smile that softened her sharp features.

“No,” Thorpe sighed, “there’s nothing to do but close your eyes and hope for the best.”

Lily snorted. “I’ll try that, professor.”

They were in front of the still-sleeping Fat Lady now; Thorpe cleared her throat, and she startled awake, scowling.

“Oh, it’s you,” the Fat Lady said irritably. “Times really never change.”

For a moment Lily thought the Fat Lady meant _her_ , and she was very confused.

But it was Thorpe who responded, smiling slightly. “It’s lovely to see you again. Miss Evans, go ahead.”

“ _Gossamer_ ,” said Lily, wishing she could stay and hear whatever the Fat Lady and Thorpe were about to say to each other. Did this mean Thorpe had been a Gryffindor? But she had been nosy enough for one night…

Stepping through the portrait hole, Lily thought she might sit by the fire in the common room for a bit. Perhaps she could listen to the radio, and head upstairs when she _actually_ felt tired. Or, hell, maybe she could count Hippogriffs on the sofa. But all thoughts of rest and solitude screeched to a halt when she registered who was already sitting in her favourite squashy armchair, staring at nothing.

The first thing that came out of Lily’s mouth was, “Oh, it’s you.”

Lest we forget, this is still a love story — even with disappearances on the rise, and Death Eaters at large, and Hogwarts growing ever more shadowed. Lily and James fell in love in 1978. They were married the same year. But it was a long, winding journey to that point from October, 1976, longer than two-and-change years should be. That was their way, of course. Because before they were married they were frequent foes, then reluctant allies, then friends, of a sort. Before they began dating, they argued with each other and cried to each other — and they kissed, just once. (They argued some more too, before, after, and during.)

You see, Lily was not a romantic. She was just a sixteen-year-old girl. She believed in love only in the vague way all girls like her did — girls who were clever and knew it, and were raised to _focus on the right thing_ , instead of _fooling around_ and _wasting your smarts_. It was only natural that Lily saw love as a far-off prospect, the stuff of novels, something that would make its way to her in time after she'd embarked on a high-flying career.

That’s not to suggest that Lily was too practical for romance. She did think she was destined for true love, after all. Witch or not, she had still been raised on stories of Prince Charmings and star-crossed lovers and the moment the slipper fits. But she thought herself too young to seek it out — what did she know about love, really? She was content with it being a mystery for the future, one she would unravel eventually. 

It was closer to her present than she knew, of course, but when it _did_ hit her she would wonder how she hadn’t seen it coming all along.

James had a more immediate belief in romantic love. This was because James never did things by halves, and so he was intimately familiar with the overwhelming, all-consuming rush that warned of _love_. Love was like Quidditch. Love was like running through the Hogwarts grounds until your breath grew ragged and your sides burned but you felt alive at every painful step. 

But that was only one facet of love, and James did not quite grasp the rest of it. He had grown up with an example — his elderly parents were quietly, comfortably in love, in the way of couples who had spent decades together and memorised each other’s every gesture. That was _also_ love, that warm knowing. James didn’t know that yet, and so he viewed the riotous love he knew he was in as something to be cured of.

He knew that love was real — he felt it. But he was a sixteen-year-old boy, and his faith in such embarrassing concepts was easily tested. How could this be _true_ _love_ when it seemed impossible, frustrating, so bloody difficult? Perhaps love simply wasn’t for him, and he would need to accept it. James thought his near future would be filled with unlearning how to love. Instead he would discover a whole new vocabulary of love, as if he’d picked up a book in a foreign language one day and realised, all of a sudden, that he could read it. 

When it happened, he would look back on all the times he had doubted — had cursed at walls; had stared at ceilings, unable to sleep — and know he never would again.

It’s difficult to say when James and Lily took the first steps to love. Perhaps it was in April, 1977, shaken by tragedy. Perhaps it was all the way in September, 1971, when they met on a train. Perhaps they had always been walking this road, unaware of the person they were walking towards until the mist cleared. They would fall in love eventually — but we would be remiss in ignoring the hiccups along the way.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, and wished she had thought of something more clever.

James Potter, leaning back in the armchair and staring at the wall, arched his eyebrows and met her gaze. “So it is.”

Lily would almost have rather run out into the corridor and begged Thorpe for detention, right away, than try to navigate this conversation. They hadn’t spoken since the pie incident, not really — save for when they had all listened to that awful Marcel Thorpe on the wireless, which had been a moment of unspoken truce. 

She’d found that her anger had cooled since then. She _had_ jumped to conclusions, no matter the evidence. And… well, she had spoken in anger, and regardless of what he thought of her, she did not like the version of her that had said what she’d said. _Be a big girl, Lily_.

So she took a step closer to him, and tried for cheerfulness. Hadn’t Thorpe asked her why she, _too_ , was out of bed? 

“Did Thorpe catch you in the corridor too and walk you back?”

James gave her a sardonic smile. “If I were out of bed and caught by a professor, I would get detention, not an escort.”

Lily supposed that was true. She didn’t like the undercurrent of criticism in his voice — how could she help that she had a better reputation than him? — but given her quest of magnanimity, it was best she didn’t press the subject. He saved her having to think of a response, though, by speaking again.

“No, I just couldn’t sleep.” He leaned back, drumming his fingers on the chair’s armrests.

“Me neither. What kept you up?” Lily crossed towards the fire, moved by an impulse she couldn’t name. She plopped onto the sofa nearest him, turning so they faced each other.

James half-laughed. “To be honest… I’m starving. There was fish for dinner today.” He made a face.

“Do you not eat fish?”

“Not at Hogwarts, on principle. It’s so _bland_. Mum makes the best fish curry. It’s ruined all other kinds of fish for me.”

Lily laughed. “Poor you.”

“Poor me, indeed. Why are you awake — and more importantly, roaming around past curfew?” 

There was only a light note of mirth in his voice, no real criticism. Lily allowed herself to relax.

“I sleep terribly,” she admitted. “I honestly can’t remember the last time I slept well.”

James looked genuinely shocked at this. He seemed to be struggling to formulate a response; the effect was a series of comical facial expressions that made Lily snort with laughter.

“Is that so hard for you to process?” she said.

“ _Yes_. How can you just not sleep?” He shook his head. “I sleep like a fucking log. It’s the best thing about me, and there are a lot of great things about me.”

“It’s that big empty head of yours. No worries to keep you up at night.” She snuck a glance at him, suddenly afraid her joke wouldn’t land. _Oh, why did you have to say that?_

But he nodded solemnly. “You’ve guessed it. Honestly, I’m not even thinking right now. I just open my mouth and say whatever I fancy.”

Lily snorted again, which made him grin.

“You know, Lily Evans, you’re a snorter,” he said.

“Excuse me!”

“It’s just a fact. My condolences.”

The very phrase — and the gravity of his expression — made her laugh again, which of course made her snort _again_. “What is that supposed to mean?”

James shrugged. “You snort when you laugh. It’s ridiculous and absolutely graceless, which is what—” He cut himself off, looking sheepish. “Sorry. That’s the hunger talking.”

“Huh,” Lily said. She found that she didn’t mind the beginning of that sentence — but she was suddenly curious as to how he’d meant to end it. _Don’t push your luck_ , she thought. She uncrossed her legs and slid off the sofa. “Look, I have all the ingredients for hot chocolate in my trunk. It’s not food, but it’ll fill you up a little, at least.”

James perked up at that. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. I’ll go get it right now, if you like.”

He took his time thinking about this. “Yeah, that’d be nice. Thanks.” 

Lily ran up to her dorm and quickly fetched the supplies, along with the mugs she kept for such occasions. Levitating her supplies in front of her, she made her way back to the fire.

“When you said all the ingredients, I had no idea we were growing the cacao and milking the cow ourselves,” James said dryly.

“Oh, hush. It’s only good if it’s done right.”

She’d brought with her a slab of dark chocolate, a slab of milk chocolate, a grater, a saucepan, a carton of whole milk, and a carton of cream, along with a little pot of brown sugar stirred together with ground cinnamon. This, she considered the very basic chocolate recipe. She handed him the grater and the dark chocolate and told him to make himself useful. Shaking his head, James joined her on the carpet and began to grate.

“You know, you could just do this with magic,” he said.

She shook her head. “I already preserve the milk with magic — and I replace it whenever we go to Hogsmeade. But the actual preparation needs to be by hand wherever possible. You’ll value your hot chocolate when you’ve worked for it, Potter.”

“All right, fearless leader.”

They worked in silence, Lily heating and stirring the milk in the pan with her wand while James grated chocolate into it. Once all the lumps in it had disappeared, she added more milk and a dollop of cream, then a light sprinkling of sugar. She stuck in a fingertip to taste it — and realised James was staring at her.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing,” he said, smiling. “’Cept, you bloody heathen, you dunked your finger right into it.”

“My finger is clean!”

“That’s what they all say…”

“Shut up, I’m giving you hot chocolate. Take it or leave it.”

She poured them each a mug and then pushed the supplies aside. Blowing on the drink, she crossed her legs and leaned back against the sofa, a smile already beginning to push at the corners of her mouth. Lily just _knew_ the hot chocolate would be perfect. 

She watched James as he took a tentative sip. He blinked, then hummed in appreciation.

“All right,” he said, “I think I have to concede.”

She grinned. “I know my chocolate.”

“I should’ve known the moment you brought out half the Hogwarts kitchen supplies.”

“ _Stop it_.” Her smile faded a little. “My dad always loved hot chocolate.”

She could see him process the past tense. But he said nothing, perhaps sensing — correctly — that she had more to say.

“He always made it for my sister and me before bed. God, it was way too much sugar — no wonder I was a demon of a child. Of course, that stopped when he...died. He left us the recipe, though. I try to drink it on nights I can’t sleep — like, _really_ can’t sleep.”

James nodded. “And then… does it makes sleeping easier?”

“I wish. Sleeping’s just as hard. But at least I have hot chocolate.” She smiled. 

“Damn good hot chocolate, at that.”

How strange, to sit there and talk with him about her father and her insomnia like — like he was Dorcas or Remus. But no, that wasn’t an accurate comparison. No matter how friendly they behaved around each other, they were still _James_ and _Lily_. There was always something between them, like a lump in her throat she couldn’t quite swallow past.

So, despite the part of her that wanted to carry on talking about anything _but_ them, Lily said, “I’m trying to be the bigger person.”

Something in him shifted, as if he too registered that the conversation was about to take a turn. 

“It rarely ends well when you have to announce it,” he said.

She ignored that. “Well, I’m trying to do it. And that’s why I want to say sorry for what I said to you the other day. I don’t know the — details of your prank, and I shouldn’t have assumed it was because… you know…” She could feel her cheeks reddening. If there was a way to apologise without actually acknowledging _what_ she had said, and what _he_ had said by the lake, she was going to find it. She didn’t care if it made her a coward.

“Thank you for your apology.”

She waited a beat before saying, “Now it’s your turn.”

“You have an interesting understanding of what being the bigger person means.”

“You dropped a _pie_ on me.” They were locked in a staring contest for a few moments, neither looking away. Lily finally relented, curiosity overpowering her stubbornness. “Honestly, though. Was it Dex you were trying to get, or me? You owe me that much.”

James sighed. “All right. I’ll tell you. When we decided to target specific people, we thought we ought to throw in some random victims so the targets wouldn’t be _certain_ we were coming for them. We wrote down a bunch of names we could think of — all you girls were on there too.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Lily sarcastically.

“It wasn’t you, though. It was Fortescue. Sirius was throwing darts at the list and one landed in between him and ‘that second-year with the weird haircut,’ and dropping food on a second-year just seemed cruel. So.” James shrugged.

James wasn’t quite sure why he’d told her the truth. True, it made him look a little less of a villain. But it had felt wrong to lie, especially after she’d said all that about her dad. God, having a conscience was the fucking _worst_. He watched her closely for any reaction. She was chewing on the inside of her cheek, but she did not look angry — yet. James just waited and drank his hot chocolate.

“Okay,” she said at last. “Thank you for telling me. I suppose that’s better than any of the alternatives…” She trailed off, looking away. 

It amused him — in a dark, self-flagellating sort of way — how she avoided the issue of his feelings for her, so plainly embarrassed at the very thought. _This is where you say something rude_ , a voice in his head prodded, _and keep your bloody distance_.

He opened his mouth to follow this impulse.

“I’m glad we’re having a mature conversation, for once,” Lily said, cutting him off. “Like normal people.”

Taken aback, he searched for an appropriate answer. “Er — yeah, I suppose.”

She was tracing the pattern in the rug: little prancing lions, the medieval sort, which looked more like the unholy imaginings of a twisted toddler than the actual big cats. James followed the sure movements of her finger with his gaze. They were both silent until her hand stilled, and she looked up.

“I don’t think we can be friends, you know,” said Lily.

Now she’d done it. Again James thought of something cutting to say and it sat on the very tip of his tongue. Again she forestalled him.

“I know you’re about to say something shitty, so at least hear me out first,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I think we’re too used to being — Lily Evans and James Potter around each other. We’re too used to arguing or being snippy or what have you, and at just the sight of the other—” She snapped her fingers. “—we fall into those roles. But… I do think roles can be unlearned.”

James did not trust himself to speak. Wisely, he kept silent.

“Over time, that is. And… we have so many friends in common, and we’re constantly around each other, and it’s exhausting to be at each other’s throats.” She was beginning to talk faster, as if she wanted to get it all out before she thought better of it.

“What are you getting at?” he said, guarded still.

“I’m asking for a truce. We don’t have to be friends. We don’t have to — get along, even.” She laughed a little. “I just _hate_ fighting. We didn’t always fight. Can’t we go back?”

He knew what he thought of that. “You can’t go back, Evans.”

Her smile turned sad. “No. No, I thought you’d say that.”

Two impulses warred within James. It would be very easy to now say the terrible things he had held off on saying, and watch her sad little smile turn sour. He could also say something genuine, and tactful… But what was the point? What was the point in expecting Lily Evans to have expectations of him?

“Just consider it,” said Lily. “A truce.” When he said nothing, she said, more urgently, “We only have a year and a half left at Hogwarts. I don’t want to spend it worrying about what I said to set you off, or saying something to set you off, or telling myself I was right to say it to you.”

“So are you bringing this up because you believe we can be vaguely decent to each other, or because it’ll make _you_ sleep better at night?” James said wryly.

“Does it matter?”

Instead of answering her question, he said, “I’ll try.”

She was watching him so intently. “You’ll try — to think about it?”

“No, I’ll try out the truce.” 

_Happy now?_ he almost added, before reining himself in. He supposed he should’ve felt something like relief — _he_ didn’t like arguing with _her_ either. But a part of him couldn’t believe this was happening now, of all times, after he had sworn off her completely. The universe must really have it in for him.

He would be polite, he decided, but nothing more. No more bloody hot chocolate at midnight. This was a truce, not an alliance. 

James rose to his feet and stretched. “I’m off to bed.”

Lily smoothed away a frown. “Oh. Okay.” 

Standing above her now, he might as well have been miles away. He had been so attentive, so genuinely interested, when she had told him about her dad, explained how she made her hot chocolate. Now he was unreadable, un _reach_ able. If she understood him better, she thought morosely, she might not have felt the urge to fight him — or throttle him — so often.

“Thanks for the hot chocolate. Night.” With a little salute, he walked away. 

He always walked the same way, she noticed: hands in his pockets, head tipped back. As if he didn’t need to look where he was going. Tripping was for other people.

Lily cleaned the mugs and the saucepan with a spell. Truthfully, his abrupt exit had left her off-kilter. Why couldn’t she have let well enough alone? But no, despite his less-than-enthusiastic reaction, she was glad she’d brought it up. It had to be done, at least for her peace of mind.

There was still a strange lump between them, but she thought it had lessened just a little. It no longer hurt her quite so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew, that's nearly 10,000 words! i hope that last scene satisfied some shippy hearts. i think i will update the description using some lines from there once most of you get a chance to catch up and read it in context first. 
> 
> this chapter was written to the songs in the text, "killer queen" and "golden slumbers." 
> 
> i'm getting close to the end of my detailed outline, so i will probably pause to outline ahead before writing the next chapter! it is called "ties that bind" and things are FINALLY going to start happening at hoggy warty hogwarts. light shippy things only — but i promise it'll set up some nice moments for later. and i hope you all noticed a certain genial ravenclaw's introduction, and realised how important he will be soon ;)
> 
> thank you so much for reading! leave us a comment luvs  
> xoxo quibblah


	5. Ties That Bind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Doe agrees to help Mary find a nice boy to rebound from her holiday party heartbreak mystery man. James and Lily call a truce. Sirius's uncle Alphard is very ill. 
> 
> NOW: Another full moon arrives. Is Michael Meadowes more than just a cheery, likeable fellow? Sirius debates whether or not Regulus deserves one last chance. The Marauders decipher a message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Nina, the most incredible and dedicated reader/commenter!

_i. A Few Suitable Boys_

“Why are we doing this in the _library_?” Mary complained.

Doe hushed her. “Because this section is really quiet, and because it’s a non-suspicious place to meet boys. Except, you will ruin it all if you’re constantly talking.”

Mary perked up a little. “We’re meeting boys? How? Why?” 

Doe steepled her fingers. She had spent the past few days racking her brain, pulling together a list of every age-appropriate, personality-appropriate boy she could think of for Mary. She didn’t tell her friend this, of course, but she was looking exclusively for short-term rebounds. Whatever Mary thought, Doe had a feeling she _needed_ to pursue her mystery boy. If she needed to play at eliminating other possibilities beforehand, well, Doe would smooth out that process for the both of them.

“Well, I’ve got a list,” Doe said. “And I gave them appointment slots.”

Mary raised her brows. “And...they agreed to this?”

“Surprisingly, most of them did. You’re a hot commodity.”

Mary grinned. “Thanks, love. You know, this is how my grandparents tried to set my mum up with a husband.”

Doe leaned back in her chair. “And? Did it work?”

“Well — no. She ran off with Dad, so they were _not_ very happy. They got over it, though.”

Doe made a _tsk_ sound, though she was pleased at this story. The same could happen to Mary. She could just see it. Although, maybe they weren’t looking at marriage quite yet…

She consulted her wristwatch. “The first one should be here in a few minutes.”

Mary nodded, growing serious. “Is my hair okay?”

“It’s gorgeous.”

“And are you going to be sitting right there? The whole time?”

Mary and Doe were at the same half of a circular table; one chair was pulled up to the other side. Doe looked from the empty chair to Mary.

“Of course. I’m here to evaluate too.”

Mary considered this for a moment. “All right. I trust you.”

* * *

_ii. End of the Road_

Sirius, James, and Peter had been at Remus’s bedside for a good twenty minutes before he opened his eyes. 

“Hello,” he managed weakly.

“Morning,” they chorused. Peter handed him a potion that Madam Pomfrey had left on the bedside table; James, having drawn the short straw, hefted up a bucket with a grimace. Remus sighed, threw back the potion, and…threw up noisily into the bucket. 

“I’ve had this job too many months in a row,” James said. “You lot are rigging it.”

“Not at all,” Sirius said cheerfully. “I have to go all the way to breakfast. Don’t tell me you want to physically move.”

James considered this for a moment. “I suppose you have a point. This comes a close second, though.” Waving his wand, he emptied the bucket. “And let’s not think about where that went.”

Remus coughed, the sound rattling awfully in his chest. The other three tensed, turning to him again.

“Round two?” said James, wincing.

Remus pushed himself upright with some difficulty. “No — no. I think I can eat now. How was last night?”

Sirius clapped him on the shoulder. “Smooth sailing, mate. No cause for worry.”

Remus made a face. “Smooth sailing for you, maybe.”

“Aw, come on.” Sirius hopped to his feet. “All right, same as usual for everyone?”

There was a chorus of yeses. Sirius sauntered out of the Hospital Wing, heading for the Entrance Hall. Though he complained, he wasn’t _opposed_ to breakfast duty, really. Peter and James never pushed for the really good stuff. He knew for a fact that Peter, at least, only went to the Great Hall and filled up plates from there. 

Sirius could not stand for that kind of half-assery — especially not after a night out, when all four Marauders had roamed the grounds and fallen into their beds absolutely exhausted, waking up famished. No, there would be fresh, steaming-hot food in the kitchens, and that was where he was going. 

He slipped into the basement, loitering in the hallway there so a gaggle of young Hufflepuffs could hurry up the stairs past him. When the coast was clear he tickled the pear, and stepped into the kitchens. 

Only one house-elf really understood Sirius’s breakfast preferences. The stately elf spotted him through the morning bustle and swanned over to him then.

“Top o’ the morning, Mr Davenport,” Sirius said, grinning.

“Mr Black,” said Davenport with a sniff. “Come, the newest batch of foodstuff is right this way…”

And how could Sirius not be endlessly amused by Davenport calling eggs and sausage — which was, upstairs, being wolfed down by disgusting eleven-year-olds — _foodstuff_? Sirius bowed, not without sincerity, and made his way to the table in question. Only eggs and fruit for Remus, who grew a conscience on mornings after his transformation and didn’t need to be reminded of meat’s general existence. Generous helpings of just about everything for himself, James, and Peter. He portioned these into Davenport’s proffered old _Prophet_ copies, which had been folded into roomy pockets. 

In the middle of this task, Pansy, who had been skulking nearby, came right up to Sirius and prodded him in the thigh.

“Oh, hello, Pansy.”

“We’re _watching_ you!” she said, which would not have been threatening coming from someone of her size if not for the way she said it.

“Yeah, enjoy the view,” he replied. She scowled, and marched away. What _had_ Peter said to her anyway at the Start-of-Term Feast? She had been even more disagreeable than usual lately. Never mind, Sirius thought, he could worry about that later.

He tied up the parcels with string, thanked Davenport, and went into the Great Hall now. There were letters for all of them — the other three had mail from their parents, and Sirius had a letter written by an unfamiliar hand. He picked up three copies of the _Prophet_ too — which was silly, honestly, why did three of them get the _Prophet_ when they could all share? Pete had the right idea… 

Not all the girls were at breakfast. Lily and Sara sat opposite each other, both reading the _Prophet_ , but the former having just returned from social calls at the other tables. 

“Morning,” Sirius said. 

“Hello, Sirius,” said Sara.

Lily did not reply immediately. Then: “Oh, hi,” she said, morose.

“That is _not_ a weekend voice, Evans.”

She sighed. “It’s Marcel bloody Thorpe again. You know the Muggle-born Mediwizard they found attacked in an alleyway? He’s saying something about it being Muggle thugs… Honestly, as though St. Mungo’s can’t identify spell damage.”

Sirius put down all the parcels. “Yeah, I reckon he’d find a way to spin anything to fit his thinking. You Know Who could be in the Ministry of Magic doing a naked tango with a centaur while shouting blood purist propaganda and he’d say… I dunno…” He cleared his throat, affecting the elder Thorpe’s baritone. “ _Why shouldn’t the man be able to provide his own music as he dances, unusual though it may be?_ ”

Lily snorted. “Your imitation of him is startlingly good.”

“I know his type, unfortunately.”

Sirius found he was enjoying this conversation, on the whole. Of course, that might just have been because he was always in a good mood after their nights out. But he had, overall, a rather tepid opinion of Lily Evans, having assumed the role of the cynical, protective friend. 

Whatever her flaws, she was all right to talk to. He admitted this to himself reluctantly. If James had gone ahead and decided to really get over her, then Sirius was free to think positively of her. He just wasn’t sure he could count on that yet.

“What’re all the newspaper bundles?” said Sara, peering at his parcels with interest.

“Foodstuff.” The girls looked perplexed. “Er, Moony’s ill, so I’m taking him breakfast.”

Sara made a moue of sympathy. “Poor thing. I keep hoping this is the term he’ll be able to stay out of the infirmary, you know.”

“I’m sure he does too,” Sirius said, managing to keep a straight face.

“My parents sent me a massive box of sweets. You should take him some too!”

Lily nodded. “They’re _so_ good.”

Sirius brightened. “Yeah, Moony would love that.” _And so, more importantly, would I_. “Hand ’em over.”

“Oh — Lily and I had our fill, so I dropped it off at the Ravenclaw table. But don’t worry, there’s so much, they definitely haven’t eaten it all yet.” She rose to her feet. “I’ll come with you.”

There was no better escort. Sara wove easily through the crowd, and when they had arrived at the Ravenclaw table she snapped her fingers and said, “Go on, get your grubby hands off the box, Black wants some.”

Producing the box took some time. It appeared to have moved beyond Sara’s — admittedly wide — friend circle of fifth-, sixth-, and seventh-years, and someone thought they had seen it at the Hufflepuff table. Sara only rolled her eyes, told Sirius to stay put, and headed in that direction. 

He exchanged smiles and nods with the Ravenclaws around him, some of whom had sweets in hand.

“Which ones should I pick, then?”

“The one with the pistachios on top, definitely,” said a perky blonde he could not immediately place, waving a pale blobby sweet crowned with a green sliver of the nut. 

“If you’re going to eat the little brown ones, you should know they’ve got liquid inside them,” the girl next to her said darkly. “It exploded all over my hands.” _Her_ , Sirius knew; Emmeline Vance, also a sixth-year, played Seeker for Ravenclaw. She was too proper for him to consider her actually likeable, but she came under his mental “all right” column. 

Marissa Beasley laughed. “Emmeline, Sara literally warned you about the liquid. You just put off eating it for so long that you forgot.” Turning to Sirius, she said, “Ignore her. Get that one too — and it’s even better if you don’t tell whoever’s eating it that it’s liquid inside, hey?”

“Cheers,” said Sirius, returning her grin. Beasley was certainly likeable — she was Head Girl, which ought to have lost her some points, but she had successfully branded herself the _fun_ Head. Given that Crollins was the other one, actually, it wasn’t that difficult a task. 

“Get the diamond-shaped one,” a dark-haired boy — Caradoc Dearborn — suggested. He waved the silver-topped diamond wedge at Sirius. “It’s fucking incredible.”

Sirius took this in kind as well. Anything that drove the bloody prince of smart-arses to such high praise was worth a consideration too.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m back!” Sara said, appearing at Sirius’s shoulder. She was slightly out of breath, but she clutched an enormous box in her hands. “I had to literally pry it away from Crollins, the prat.”

“The _prat_ ,” all the Ravenclaws and Sirius agreed aloud, nodding.

Sirius borrowed a goblet from the table and dropped his sweet selections into it, thanking Sara. Juggling all this, he strolled out of the Great Hall and back towards the Hospital Wing. After a while he got tired of actually holding everything, so instead he levitated it all. And then he made them do a little dance around him just because he could. All this still did not take up all of his concentration. So Sirius pulled his own letter from the prancing collection of things and tore it open, humming off-key to himself.

There were, in fact, two notes enclosed. He unfolded one and scanned its first few words: _Dear Mr Black, I am so sorry to inform you that—_

Four parcels, three letters, and the goblet of sweets all tumbled to the stone floor.

* * *

_iii. A Few More Suitable Boys_

It was nearing lunchtime, and Doe and Mary were still exactly where they had been in the morning: at the table in the library, huddled together.

“That last one was weird,” Mary was saying.

Doe rolled her eyes. “Okay, Henry is perfectly all right.”

Mary shook her head. “He’s all right as a _person_. But as a bloke...he’s a little odd, Doe.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means he can’t be my rebound, obviously!”

Doe had struggled to control her annoyance all morning, but she could not keep it out of her voice entirely now. “There are only so many boys at Hogwarts, Mary, so unless you want to be disgusting and hit on children you’ll just have to settle!”

Mary glared at her. “Don’t snap at me!”

 _Deep breaths_ , Doe told herself. Mary was only being so frustrating because she was hurt. She didn’t _mean_ to be infuriating. 

“We should take a break,” she said finally. “Neither of us has eaten all morning, and the next guy only comes in after lunch. We’ll drive ourselves mad if we keep talking and thinking about this.”

Mary made a face, but she nodded. “Let’s go, then.”

“You go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute — have to find this Ancient Runes book.”

It wasn’t a bluff, not exactly — Doe did need the book. But she also needed a minute of breathing room, just a brief moment away from Mary. Her friend gave her a look as if to say she wasn’t fooling anyone. But Mary headed out of the library without argument, leaving Doe alone at the table.

Pushing her chair back with a sigh, Doe stretched and made her way to the Ancient Runes section.

“Look who it is,” a voice said.

Doe turned around. “Oh! Michael!”

His hair was sticking up, as though he’d only just left his bed. Doe thought a more likely story was that he hadn’t properly looked in a mirror all morning; she smothered a smile. _Boys_. 

“I saw you with your friend,” Michael said. “You’ve been here for hours. Knocking out homework before the professors even assign it, eh?”

Doe laughed. “I wish. It’s ridiculous to explain, actually, but — Mary is trying to get over someone, and she wants a rebound. So we’re interviewing candidates.”

His eyebrows rose. “That’s… dedicated.”

“It’s hilarious, but yeah, it does take more effort than you’d think.”

Michael grinned. “Look at you, being such a good friend.”

“That’s me,” said Doe, doing a curtsy.

He shook his head. “You know, I’d have thought a girl like Mary could get any bloke she wanted.”

Oh, how to explain this without explaining too much? But when Mary said not to tell anyone, surely she’d meant Lily and Germaine and _her_ friends, not Michael Meadowes.

“Yes, she’s trying something new,” Doe said. At Michael’s curious expression, she clarified, “Nice boys.”

Michael burst into laughter — then, with a glance backwards in the vague direction of Madam Pince’s desk, he tried to turn it into a cough. “I hope that works out for her.”

“Your sort are very novel to her, so we’ll see,” said Doe dryly.

“ _My_ sort? I don’t think I’m a nice boy, really. I can be quite a prick sometimes — though I’m working on it.”

Doe squinted at him. “You? A prick? I’ve yet to see any evidence of that.”

He winked. “Let’s hope you don’t have to.”

* * *

_  
iv. All Your Loving_

The mysterious reading room on the seventh floor was refusing to show itself.

Dex had paced up and down the corridor about a dozen times, with Lily watching and wishing she could do _some_ thing to help. She was beginning to think the best thing she could possibly do was suggest they go somewhere else.

“This has never happened before,” Dex said finally, his voice tight with frustration.

“It’s all right,” said Lily, snaking an arm around him. “We can work in the library… or in our common rooms. Really, there’s a lot of options.”

Dex sighed. “They aren’t very private.”

Lily arched an eyebrow. “What do they need to be private for?”

He met her gaze. “You know, just in case we want a study break.” Dex cut her off mid-laugh, pressing his mouth to hers. Lily hummed appreciatively, tugging him closer.

“Three feet apart in the corridors, lovebirds,” a voice called. 

Lily jumped, recognising its owner immediately. Dex did not; he turned around in search of the speaker. Lily saw his expression grow dark and grimaced. This was not going to be a fun conversation.

“Potter,” said Dex.

“Good afternoon,” James said, looking between the two of them. “Young love, eh?”

“What do you want? Are you going to be dropping another stale pie on us?” 

“No, it’s fresh this time.”

“James, stop messing,” said Lily, sighing. 

As if he had just noticed her presence, James sobered. “Right. See you around, Evans.” And without another word — or even so much as a glance at either of them — he strode past them and round the corner.

Why was he so hot and cold? She recalled his reluctance at their truce. Had she misjudged him, projected her own desire for peace between them onto him? She forced herself to put it out of her mind. Whatever argument he was having with himself, she gained nothing trying to parse it from his cryptic clues.

“I’m sorry,” said Lily, squeezing her eyes shut a moment. “For him, I mean. He’s — he and I are in a strange phase of pre-friendship and I don’t think either of us is handling it well.” That was being generous, she thought, but considering the look on Dex’s face Lily thought she ought to head off any conflict right away.

“Okay,” said Dex finally, taking her hand. “You’re right. Let’s just go to a common room. Yours or mine?”

Lily considered this. There was the problem of the girls’ staircase, if it so happened that they wanted to go somewhere more private… She flushed at the very thought.

“Yours.”

* * *

_v. Last Chance_

> _Dear Mr Black,_
> 
> _I am so sorry to inform you that your uncle Alphard passed away here at St. Mungo’s late on Friday night. I meant to notify you sooner, but Alphard had a note that he wanted delivered along with this notice. It is enclosed here. You will be comforted, I hope, to know that your uncle did not suffer at all in the end, but passed away in his sleep._
> 
> _My deepest condolences,_
> 
> _Devan O’Leary_
> 
> _Healer_

> _Dear Sirius,_
> 
> _This letter will be hurried, unfortunately. I should have written it sooner — but even someone like me doesn’t enjoy thinking of the pain my passing will cause others. I will keep this brief: you have only my best wishes, and I will be leaving you a small amount that I hope will be of use to you once you leave Hogwarts._
> 
> _Once again, I ask that you get in touch with your brother. I have received a letter from him since I wrote you last, but I am still worried about the company he keeps._
> 
> _Take care,_
> 
> _All my love,_
> 
> _Alphard_

Sirius put the letters down and cleared his throat. “And that’s it.”

He, James, and Peter were in their dormitory, a tableau of sobriety that Sirius would otherwise have found quite comical. Peter looked rather uncomfortable, tugging at a loose thread in his covers. James was watching Sirius with an intent that the latter did not like.

“You should’ve told us he was worse,” James said.

Sirius threw his arms in the air. “It would hardly have made a difference!”

“But still—”

“And of course the last thing he writes me is about that insufferable git Regulus—”

Peter was wide-eyed. “You aren’t going to do it, then?”

“Do what?” said Sirius.

“I dunno… talk to him?”

Sirius scoffed. “Regulus doesn’t respond to a stern talking-to from anyone but our bloody mother. It won’t do any good.”

As if sensing he was approaching dangerous territory, Peter said timidly, “But it was the last thing Alphard wanted you to do.”

Sirius glared at him. “So what? Why do we put so much stock in — in _last wishes_ anyway? What’s it to Alphard now? It’s not like he can _see_.”

Peter flinched. James looked away. Feeling as spent as if he’d played a gruelling, hours-long Quidditch match, Sirius sat down on his bed, hard. 

He had known this was coming, of course. But he had convinced himself that it would not be so soon — despite what Alphard had said about his grim evaluations at the hospital. _Fuck_ , no matter how old or how ill his uncle had been, Sirius had childishly thought he would hang on. Maybe that was why he hadn’t told any of his friends about the latest tests. The questions that topic would inevitably prompt would force him to accept that things were indeed bad. That they had become worse. 

And now there would be a funeral. One that he would have to attend. With his fucking family. And only Sirius would know how many of them Alphard held in contempt, because the old man had never fully broken away from the Black clan. They would sprout some family pride bullshit that his uncle would’ve _hated_ , and he, Sirius, would have to sit there and listen. 

He sprang to his feet. “The pin—” 

“The what?” said James.

“The — the pin… the bloody brooch thing he sent me last year, d’you remember?”

It was a clunky, worn silver brooch, wrought in the shape of a bramble bush. The significance of it was indecipherable, but Alphard had said it was a family heirloom. One of the few unconnected to snake symbols or blood, he’d written, and so perhaps it was something Sirius could see himself keeping. Honestly, his feelings about his family weren’t far off from that twisted knot of bramble. There were the good ones, like Alphard, and his cousin Andromeda, the few unchipped jewelled flowers; the rest, well. Some things were better not spoken of.

Sirius strode over to his dresser and began haphazardly pulling out the drawers. “It has to be here somewhere — I should wear it to the funeral, that’ll stick it to everyone—”

A hand touched him on the shoulder; he jumped.

“Padfoot, don’t worry,” Peter said. “We’ll help you look.”

Sirius was dimly aware that he probably looked manic, and frantic, and in general fucking bonkers. His friends wore matching expressions of cautious concern.

“Oh,” he said faintly.

“Yeah, mate,” James said with a smile. “And, I mean, why not just try — _Accio Black family brooch_!”

Nothing stirred.

James sighed. “Worth a shot.”

“Yeah, you did all right,” Sirius said.

The three of them stared at Sirius’s dresser, which had clothes bundled into it with no eye for order. A faint smell, like rotting fruit, was coming from somewhere inside it.

“I’ll take the trunk,” said Peter quickly.

Half an hour later, the three had made significant discoveries about Sirius’s general cleanliness and hygiene, but the brooch was nowhere to be found. Poor Peter had gingerly pushed aside Dungbombs to sift through the debris at the bottom of his trunk.

“Maybe you left it at your parents’ house,” James said. He had gone back to his bed, since Sirius’s dresser was a lost cause.

Sirius screwed his face up in thought. “I might have. I don’t _think_ I did…” He sighed. “Well, if it gets back to them in the end it’ll all have been for nothing.”

“It was a pretty ugly brooch anyway,” Peter offered.

Sirius considered this. “Yeah, it was,” he admitted.

“What’s this?” Peter fished out a crumpled-up scrap of parchment, holding it up to squint at it. “ _Black, your last chance. Blood._ What the hell? That’s all it says.”

“Let me see.” James slid off his bed and snatched the parchment from him. “Oh, you weren’t joking. That _is_ all it says.” 

Peter scowled at him. “Thanks, Prongs.”

“Oh, that,” said Sirius. “I thought it was rubbish. Someone slipped it into my Potions notes.”

“It’s literally addressed to you,” Peter pointed out.

“It says _BLACK_. They could mean the colour. How should I know?”

James rocked back on his heels. “It was in your Potions notes? We have Potions with Slytherin…”

Sirius met his gaze, frowning. “You don’t think one of them put this in there?”

“Who else would be capable of this demented shit?” said James with a shrug.

“You’re not curious?” Peter said. “I think it must have a password.”

Sirius gave him an incredulous look. “This isn’t a cozy little boys’ mystery novel, Wormtail. And besides, if it _is_ meant for me, and it _is_ supposed to have a password—” he raised his eyebrows meaningfully, underlining his scepticism “—then how would I be expected to know it? I have no bloody idea about any of this.”

“The clue is obviously _blood_ ,” Peter said, ignoring Sirius’s eye-roll. “So, er…” He waved his wand over the parchment and said, “Pure-blood!”

Nothing happened.

Peter deflated a little. “You could help by thinking in that vein,” he told the other two.

Sirius let out a long-suffering sigh, though the distraction this was posing came as a definite relief. He waved his own wand over the paper, saying, “ _Toujours pur_.”

The words had the effect of a pebble dropped into a pond; the ink on the parchment rippled and then rearranged itself into new shapes, until the message now read: _BLACK. YOUR LAST CHANCE. DADA DUNGEON, OCT 5._

Peter looked very smug indeed. “Merlin, it feels great to be right.”

“Yeah, it’s a novel feeling for you, isn’t it?” said Sirius, giving him a doleful look. “What the hell is happening in the Defence dungeon?”

“What the hell _happened_ , more like. You’re a few days too late to find out,” James said regretfully. “Unless…”

Sirius recognised the expression he wore. “Oh, spit it out.”

“You can ask Regulus about it. That way you’re doing what Alphard wanted, and you can figure out what the note is supposed to mean.”

Triumph was evident in James’s voice, though Sirius did not think he had solved much.

“And why would he know anything about it?”

James shrugged. “Maybe he will, maybe he won’t. It’s probably good news if he doesn’t, eh? I can’t think of a _good_ reason someone would send you that note.”

Sirius gave a noncommittal grunt. “Don’t look so fucking thrilled, you two. I know you’re only interested in this because you think you can talk me into talking to Reg—”

“All _right_ , Padfoot,” said James. “We’ll leave it alone.”

When Sirius turned his back, he exchanged a knowing glance with Peter.

* * *

_vi. None of the Last Dozen Boys Were Suitable At All!_

However Doe had expected this day to end, it was not like this. The last boy had left, and rather than turn on Doe in anger once more, Mary — _Mary Macdonald!_ — had begun to cry.

“None of them liked me,” Mary said, sniffling.

Doe was nothing short of amazed. “ _They_ didn’t like _you_? You had criticisms of all of them! Plural!” 

Mary blew her nose loudly. “This is so fucking unfair. _None_ of them liked me!”

Doe sighed and took Mary’s hand. “That is not true. All of them liked you. Because they’d be mad not to!”

“Maybe they all liked this.” She gestured at her body. “But — none of them wanted to ask me things.”

She wasn’t _wrong_ , but how could a first awkward meeting rule out all of these boys? 

“Ask you things like how you’d describe your favourite Queen song?” said Doe dryly.

Mary frowned. “That’s not funny.”

As if there were a timer going off her head, Doe felt herself reach her breaking point — and, _snap!_

“No, what’s _funny_ is that I’m investing time and energy in the project of _your_ rebound relationship and you’re spending all of it complaining about how guys like you for the wrong reasons!” Doe hated the whiny note she heard in her voice, but once she’d started speaking she could not stop. “At least you know they like you!” 

Mary scoffed. “Please. You’d know they like you if you only asked.”

“Sometimes it’s nice to be asked first, all right?” said Doe hotly. “Only you wouldn’t know, because that’s your default.”

Mary opened her mouth to respond, but the glaring face of Madam Pince suddenly appeared between them, making both girls start and scream.

“Lower your _voices_ ,” Pince hissed. Mary and Doe stammered out apologies. Finally she slunk away, leaving the girls alone once more.

They locked gazes.

“I’m sorry,” Mary said with a sigh. “I know I’m being the worst friend right now.”

Doe mirrored her sigh. “You are, a little bit. I know you’re upset, Mare. But I really don’t think this is going to help.”

Mary pouted; Doe’s heart softened. She looked so uncertain — an expression that Mary wore like an ill-fitting shirt. 

“Forget about me,” said Mary. “I’m sorry I haven’t… asked about you. The reason I don’t ask you if you want a boyfriend is, well, you seem like you want something _real_. Not a quick snog in a broom closet — or something just for fun — you really want love. And that’s… something I don’t know much about. But I’ll help you, if that’s what you want.”

Doe wasn’t sure how to respond to this. She had nothing against quick snogs in broom closets — but Mary’s words brought something else to mind. What if she was casually seeing someone, and then she really fell for him? No, better to wait until someone as all-in as she’d be came along. She could _hear_ the problem in her thinking, and she knew Mary would point it out to her if she vocalised it.

So instead she smiled and patted her friend on the shoulder. “I’ll let you know. And then you can be my wingwoman.”

“I’d be so damn good at it. I’ve been practising for years, you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was quick and short, i know, but i promise the next few will be LONGG
> 
> i have also started actually writing out shippy scenes that are several months ahead (probably like... chapter 20ish) and boy i am so excited to bring pain, angst, hope, heartbreak, and MORE
> 
> thanks for reading!  
> xoxo quibblah


	6. Bang Bang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Lily is still angry at Snape because of the incident at the end of their fifth year. But she's called a truce with James. Germaine flies around-slash-with an unfamiliar girl; the interaction leaves her puzzled but takes her mind off the bad news she just received. Sirius's uncle Alphard dies after a long illness, and urges him to reconcile with Regulus. Sirius also gets a weird message.
> 
> NOW: Crollins is a prick. What's going on in Hogwarts at night?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING for off-page/implied animal abuse.
> 
> I'm starved for comments and kudos! Please love me!

_i. Middle Ground_

Whatever fickle hand dealt the Head Boy and Girl assignments — well, Lily supposed it was Dumbledore’s fickle hand, actually — surely had it out for all the prefects this year. There was simply no other explanation. Crollins and Marissa Beasley simply could not fathom how to work together. Their meetings were moved around constantly, their approaches to discipline were polar opposites… But the worst part about prefect meetings wasn’t even wincing through a Crollins and Marissa sparring match. No, that Lily might have stomached with some grimacing.

The worst part was that it was plain and obvious to _all_ of them that another prefect had expected to be Head Boy, and the actual Head Boy knew that this prefect had expected to be Head Boy, and so _he_ always thought his authority was being threatened. And the prefect never made things better. And then the Head Girl would take that prefect’s side—

“I don’t think Dumbledore could’ve made a stranger choice,” Lily whispered to Remus. The meeting had only just begun, but already Crollins and Caradoc Dearborn — the aforementioned prefect — were giving each other cold looks. _Any minute now_ , Lily thought, _and Crollins will erupt at something_.

Remus chuckled. “Sometimes I wonder if he ever just picks a random, vaguely well-behaved pair of students just to see what they’ll do to each other, let alone everyone else.”

“Then this has to be one of those times.”

“Let’s start off with reports,” said Marissa briskly, putting an end to the low chatter that filled the room. “Have patrols been going all right, everyone?”

The low murmur of assent was interrupted by a lone raised voice.

“Actually, Annie and I have heard some odd noises lately,” Doc said. Annie, a seventh-year Hufflepuff, nodded in confirmation. “They quiet down when we try to take a closer look, but it’s strange stuff. Bangs, sometimes even flashes of light, stuff like that.”

“Probably just Peeves,” said Crollins, his gaze fixed on the wall across from him.

“Here we go,” Remus muttered.

Doc gave him an icy smile. “Since when does Peeves need to hide? Look, I’m not saying we can do anything about it — hell, we don’t know what it is. I’m just saying, you all ought to know—” this, he said to the whole group “—in case you hear it too.”

“Thanks for the public service announcement, Dearborn,” Crollins said nastily. “If any of you is seeing or hearing things and you’re certain you don’t belong in the Hospital Wing, we can discuss it next meeting.”

Marissa looked like she was working very hard on swallowing a scream. “Just keep your eyes and ears open, I suppose,” she said through clenched teeth. 

Doc rolled his eyes. Lily and Remus exchanged a look. _Poor Marissa_ , she thought.

“Poor Marissa,” someone whispered behind her, making Lily jump. 

She peered over her shoulder to see Amelia Bones, her head bent conspiratorially towards Emmeline Vance. Emmeline caught Lily staring and narrowed her eyes. Clearing her throat, Lily turned around quickly.

They went over the next month’s patrol schedule next. As the Hufflepuff prefects went back and forth over dates, Lily and Remus did not have to discuss things at all. It was simple, figuring out prefect business with him. Lily allowed herself to imagine them as Heads together. It was not outside the realm of possibility, and it was preferable to lots of other options. Severus, for one — he was sitting not far from them, looking away from her pointedly. Remus did always have the same conflicts, though, which reminded her…

“How are you feeling, by the way?” she said to Remus, pitching her voice low. 

Remus frowned a little. “You mean my mum? She’s well.”

“No, I mean _you_ ,” replied Lily, confused now. “Sirius said you were in the Hospital Wing this weekend — and he and James and Peter were there all morning…”

“Oh, _that_. Yes, I’m doing much better, thanks.” He shifted in his seat. “Sorry to abandon you for patrols.”

“That’s all right. You can make up for it this week.”

He smiled at her. “Oh — can we, er, avoid Thursday? I think Singh said they were flexible on Friday, so maybe we could swap?”

 _How odd_. “You’re not doing a very good job of making up for anything,” Lily said, frowning again.

Remus coloured. “Look, I’ll just ask.”

“But — why?”

“Just...trust me, all right?”

Lily couldn’t contain a sigh, but she did not protest when he stood to go speak to the sixth-year Ravenclaw prefects, who had drifted towards Marissa and Crollins. She wasn’t the only one watching Remus, she realised; Severus’s gaze was fixed on his back. Unease pricked her. Sev was so hung up on Remus’s mysterious illness, and she wouldn’t have put eavesdropping below him. But perhaps she could divert his train of thought. 

“Do you know what that’s about?” she said to Severus.

His dark eyes flashed. “What?”

“The nighttime noises. You know, what Doc said.”

“Are we friends or not?” Severus said snappily. “Because some days you won’t speak to me, and on others you’ll pretend everything’s fine.”

Lily opened her mouth, struggling to come up with a response. He was right, she realised. She was bloody awful at being angry at him. And she did care for him — she _had_ , and she couldn’t just ignore that — but she couldn’t ignore _that memory_ either— All this must have been clear on her face, because Severus’s expression darkened.

“Thought so. Figure it out yourself. Maybe _James_ and _Sirius_ can help.”

He stood and walked away before Lily could say anything. There was no middle ground, she thought, and that was her problem. The middle ground was straightforward to live in. She had lived in it for some time now. But now — that day, by the lake, she had been jostled horribly out of her middle-ground existence. Was there a way to go back? Did she _want_ to go back? 

But she didn’t like fighting, with anyone. It took so much energy to maintain a fight — she knew that, from James. What would it mean to extend a truce to Severus, just the same as she had for the other boy? He would agree, she knew he would. He had rebuffed her and sulked at her for weeks now but he certainly still missed her. Perhaps then the space where he’d been would feel less like a fresh wound and more like a passing bruise. But — Lily still had her pride, and her memory of that day.

 _Consider it_ , said the part of her that missed the comfort of his friendship.

Perhaps she would. The decision ought to have been satisfying, but all Lily felt was that sense of unsettledness, that same kick-to-the-ribs reminder that had left her breathless since June. 

* * *

_  
ii. Family Business, that morning_

Against all his instincts, Sirius cornered his brother after breakfast. 

“I need to talk to you,” he said, concentrating on keeping his gaze away from Rowle. If he looked at that twit, he would say something stupid; he just _knew_ he would. 

Regulus glanced from his friend to Sirius, uncertainty written in his expression. “About what?”

Sirius resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Look, it won’t take long. You,” he said to Rowle, “buzz off for a second.”

Rowle glared at him. “Who d’you think—”

“You don’t have to be a prick,” said Regulus, remarkably calm given the circumstances. “I’ll talk to you.”

The brothers moved away from the crowd, to a corner of the Entrance Hall. Sirius could see that Rowle had stopped by the stairs, presumably to wait for Regulus. Of all the lackeys to pick, he thought. Alphard would’ve said that Regulus wasn’t exactly spoiled for choice. But then, Alphard would’ve said a lot of things. Sirius knew that was what he should begin with: their uncle’s death, and their fucked-up family, and _how did ickle Reg feel?_ That was how Alphard would’ve done it, anyway.

Instead, he said, “Do you know anything about this note?” He fished out the piece of parchment from a pocket, and handed it to Regulus.

Sirius found himself hoping his brother would say no. It was a strange feeling — he’d thought he had long since given up on _expecting_ things of anyone he was related to. But hell, he wanted Regulus to look at the note and tell Sirius he had no idea what any of this was.

But when Regulus met Sirius’s gaze again, he knew. He fucking _knew._

“You...figured out the password?” Regulus said.

“Yeah, I did, but only after the date. What’s it about?” If he wanted to know more, Sirius knew, he’d have to play along. 

“You really want to know?” Something like hope sparked in Regulus’s eyes. “I told them — well, they thought you wouldn’t be interested—”

“I’m here because I _want to know_ , aren’t I?” He didn’t have to feign impatience. 

“All right, look—” Regulus glanced about to make sure no one was listening in on them. “There’s another one on Thursday night. The first-floor Transfiguration classroom. Come alone.”

Sirius frowned. “But what is it?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Oh, come off it—”

“No, I _can’t_! But you can see for yourself. As long as you don’t bring your friends.”

Sirius was silent for a moment. His friends were, no doubt, watching the map at this very moment to make sure he was actually speaking to Regulus.

“All right,” he said finally. 

“ _All right_? So you’ll come?”

He shrugged, and walked away. 

* * *

_iii. Be Alone_

It wasn’t even late October yet. It was still early days. There was no need to panic already — she’d be panicking all the way until May. She didn’t need to start early. 

These were all things that Germaine was telling herself as she walked to the Quidditch pitch, broom in hand. It was drizzling, the sort of rain that didn’t so much fall as hang like a curtain of mist in the air. 

Germaine didn’t mind that, though. Quidditch — time and space and herself, alone in the air — had been all hers since her childhood. Her sister didn’t obsess over the game, though they had both listened to matches on the wireless as children. The day that difference became apparent was when their mother — having saved up a great deal beforehand — had bought them tickets to a Harpies match, saying she wanted her daughters to have _female role models_. Her father had responded that role models like the Harpies would certainly teach Germaine and Abigail how to beat up anyone — especially boys — who even looked at them funny. She still wasn’t sure if that had been a joke. 

The sisters had gone to the match, though, escorted by their Muggle-born father, who preferred footy to Quidditch. Abigail had spent the day wandering around the packed stands and saying hello to strangers. Germaine had spent the day watching, and possibly had her mouth open for the entire duration of the game. 

Imagine her disappointment when it became increasingly clear that she physically would not be handing out any Harpies-style beatdowns. When the neighbourhood boys played Quidditch on their banged-up training brooms, she was always the last one picked to a team. Until, that is, someone had nicked a Snitch. It wasn’t the same as _real_ Quidditch, since the worn little thing had already been touched by someone, but the Snitch still flew quite far and fast. Of all the children, no one could weave through trees and spot its golden sheen like Germaine. 

Suddenly she was a hot commodity. In the house Germaine was quiet, though not necessarily meek, and her parents had worried that bossy Abigail would get her way too often. But after Quidditch, she was content — still not _loud_ , but satisfied with herself and unwilling to be pushed around. On the puttering family broom, Germaine was cheerful and competitive and at peace. 

Around the time that she had started at Hogwarts, though, the boys had stopped wanting to play with her — for different reasons than before. Germaine couldn’t give less of a damn about girls and boys playing together. But she’d recovered from this expulsion fairly quickly. Why did she need them, anyway? She had friends at school now, ones who would write her over the summer and did not forget her over the holidays. 

So she practised flying all by herself, in the woods near her little country village. This had nearly the same effect as Quidditch, she found. She would duck under branches and around surprised woodland creatures, feel the dappled sunlight on her skin, and know she was centred. This was where she belonged; this was where she was at peace. And if she fell once or twice, or came home with scratches all over her arms, well, her mother would only shake her head and get out her healing supplies. 

It would be more accurate to say that _flying_ calmed Germaine; Quidditch, by contrast, excited her and stressed her and drove her mad. She was the sort of sports fan who had pre-game jitters when her favourite team played. And so on weeks when she found James Potter’s drills played on a loop in her brain, and she was thinking too much about the next game, she would go out to the pitch and just fly. 

Given that the season was coming up soon it was difficult to find a convenient time to be alone at the stadium. Often her greatest obstacle was none other than the Gryffindor Quidditch team, led through one gruelling practice after another by a characteristically fanatical James. But now — _now_ she could…

Of course, no sooner had she thought that treacherous thought than she realised someone had beaten her to the pitch. Again. The same someone, in fact, as last time. 

Since her run-in with the girl on her birthday, Germaine had figured out who she was. They were in so many classes together, after all, and she had played against her before. Well, _lost_ to her before, but that was not something Germaine wanted to remember just then. They weren’t friends, nor were they friendly. Emmeline Vance was not the friendly type. 

Germaine watched her run the same drills as last time, feeling a prickle of frustration. The whole point of solitude was not having to think about other bloody people. Being able to pretend you were the only one in the world, just for an hour or two. She could fly with Emmeline again but she would be so aware, the whole time, of the words she couldn’t bring herself to say to anyone. Well, she could try and yell _my parents are splitting up_ at Emmeline. She didn’t think that would go down so well. 

She noticed Emmeline noticing her: the other girl stilled in the air, mid-drill. Without thinking Germaine waved at her. For a moment Emmeline did not respond. Germaine felt incredibly foolish. She ought to just leave. But then Emmeline waved back for a split second, before tumbling into her drill once more. 

Why couldn’t they just share the pitch? There was plenty of space, and Germaine wasn’t going to run any drills herself. If Emmeline didn’t like that, she thought, she could keep away easily. 

Keeping distance was easier than Germaine had thought it would be. She’d flown towards one end of the pitch while Emmeline was at the other, and without any sort of conversation they had each stayed in their own halves. It felt a little like playing truant to fly aimlessly while Emmeline was clearly practising. But Germaine wasn’t sure she wanted to run drills with the other girl right there. She would think too much about whether she was looking and what she thought of Germaine’s form. Germaine would prefer that Emmeline — or anyone she didn’t know well, really — had _no_ thoughts of her at all. 

But she had started copying Emmeline’s drills without realising it. It was a profoundly embarrassing realisation. What if Emmeline thought she was staring at her, or worse, _spying_? God, Germaine would die. She slowed her pace, swinging her feet up to her broom handle. She’d done this lots as a kid, but she wasn’t certain she could still manage it — which should have given her pause, honestly, but Germaine was so concentrated on seeming nonchalant that she didn’t even consider it. She put the soles of her shoes against the handle, counted down, and pulled herself upright. 

As she’d expected, the broom bucked at the sudden shift in weight. She put her out her hands for balance, unable to swallow a shriek. Stupid, stupid, this was _such_ a stupid thing to do— But her broom stopped bobbing and there she was, standing.

“I thought I was going to have to catch you,” said a flat voice. Emmeline had indeed flown over. Did she have any expressions, Germaine thought, _other_ than unimpressed?

“No need,” Germaine said, her glib tone somewhat belied by the wobble she gave.

“Why would you even try that? It’s not like you’d get the chance to use it in a Quidditch match.”

Germaine shrugged. “For fun?”

Emmeline arched an eyebrow. “If your thrills come from near-death experiences, I suppose.”

It wasn’t like she’d have _actually_ died. Death was far-off. Death was for people who weren’t seventeen and antsy. Her broom was even still moving, at a leisurely pace. Germaine angled her body to the left and her broom followed. Pointedly, she met Emmeline’s gaze. _See? I’m in control_.

“Besides,” Emmeline said, “you definitely shouldn’t be trying that on a — what is that, a Cleansweep _Five_?”

Germaine frowned. “We can’t all ride the latest models,” she retorted, a chill seeping into her voice.

Emmeline’s brows pinched together. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just not safe.”

“Well, don’t worry. You don’t have to catch me.”

Germaine sat down more carelessly than she otherwise would have, just to see how Emmeline would react. She flinched, only a little. There was not much else to say. They hadn’t really said hello. Germaine flew away without saying goodbye.

* * *

_iv. Mischief Managed_

Not for the first time, James was glad there were no other Gryffindor boys in their year. It would have been bloody inconvenient. The Marauders were all in their dormitory; it was Thursday night, curfew was in place, and they had things to investigate. Of course, they didn’t all agree on _how_ to do it.

“You don’t have to come,” Sirius was saying. 

James sighed. “Mate, what the fuck makes you think we wouldn’t come? It’s Slytherins doing something weird. We want to know too.”

“It’s not just any Slytherins.” Sirius’s eyes flashed. The others exchanged glances. They had come to understand their friend’s complicated relationship with his family and their sort — but nothing was quite so tangled and confusing as Sirius where his brother was concerned. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I _won’t_ be coming,” said Remus.

Peter looked up at that. “What? Why not?”

“I tried to switch patrols, but it didn’t work. I couldn’t press it too much — Lily was getting all suspicious.”

“ _Moony_ ,” said James, exasperated.

“What? What did you want me to do, explain that we wanted to sneak out to spy on Regulus and his friends?” Remus shot back. “She would _not_ take that lying down.”

“Oh, all right.”

“But I want to take one of the mirrors.”

Sirius frowned. “What for?”

“ _Because_ , when you three need my help you’ll need a way to contact me. And unless you want me to have the map so I can find you, I’ll need a mirror.”

James couldn’t fault this logic. It was best that the three of them kept the map, because they’d need to know who they were going up against. _If_ they were going up against anyone, and this wasn’t just all a big joke.

“All right, take a mirror,” James said. “D’you have to go now?”

Remus looked at his watch. “Yeah, I should be off.” He took the mirror Sirius held out to him.

“Keep Evans away,” James said as Remus opened the door. All three of his friends looked at him; he cursed himself for speaking at all. “I mean — she’d get in the way, you know she would. Especially if Snivellus is there.” 

Remus nodded slowly. “I will.”

When he left, silence fell over the other three. It was an uneasy sort of quiet — unusual, for the Marauders. Their nightly excursions were characterised by excitement, not this...tension. James had to wonder how much of Sirius’s impatience had to do with his uncle’s death. But of course they couldn’t talk about _that_ , not unless they wanted Sirius to up and run right away.

“We should go too,” said Sirius, springing to his feet.

“Not yet. What’s the plan?” Peter said. “We don’t know what we’re walking into.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “It’s obviously Dark magic. We need to go get proof.”

“We _do_ need proof,” James said. Whatever happened, whatever they found, their word wasn’t enough.

“We don’t even know that anything’s _happening_ ,” said Peter, exasperated.

“Right, because they’re having fucking tea in the Transfiguration classroom right now,” snapped Sirius. “They’re up to something, Wormtail. That’s bloody obvious.”

James looked between them. Sirius was pacing now, his jaw clenched. Peter was on the carpet, knees drawn to his chest. _For fuck’s sake._ James was going to have to play the mediator. That was Remus’s job; James was not a middle ground sort of person. He drew in a breath.

“We should probably figure out how we’ll approach it beforehand,” he said at last.

Sirius scoffed. “I can’t believe you, Prongs. They’re obviously — they’re obviously doing _some_ thing, and we don’t have the balls to go—”

Peter’s desperation showed on his face. “But — well, do we even know how many of them there are? Just, think for a second, Padfoot—”

“We have the map, don’t we? Wasn’t that the whole point?” Sirius shoved his hands into his pockets. 

James opened his mouth to argue, to talk him down somehow. But before he could think what to say, Sirius threw his hands up and stalked out of the door.

“Is he really going?” said Peter, his voice small.

“’Course not. He’ll take a walk and cool off,” James said. He got to his feet. They might as well get ready for whenever Sirius came back. He tucked the Cloak under one arm, rummaging through his unmade bed for the map. Maybe _this_ was why his mother was always telling him to make it. But the parchment was nowhere to be found. James sighed. 

“Pete, help me find the map.”

But Peter’s eyes grew huge and round. “He’s got it.”

“What—” James understood all of a sudden. “Padfoot. He has the map.”

He wasn’t taking a _walk_ at all.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” James muttered. “C’mon, we’ve got to go.” He threw the Cloak over himself; after a beat, Peter joined him.

“We should take the—”

“—sixth-floor passage, I know.”

If they couldn’t head Sirius off, they could at least arrive before he had caused _too_ much havoc. Stifling a swear, James led the way.

Remus was usually quiet on patrol; Lily was used to that. What she wasn’t used to was this...odd sort of jumpiness. It was starting to get at her as well. 

“Are you sure,” she said, not for the first time that night, “that you’re all right?”

Remus nodded. “Yes. Absolutely. I’m fine. It’s just been — a long day.”

Lily felt a touch of guilt at that. Poor Remus always had to bear the brunt of her curiosity. 

“Sorry about that,” she said.

“It’s fine.” But he did not elaborate; when they arrived at the stairs, he started downwards rather than continuing along the corridor.

Lily couldn’t help herself. “We’ve already been down there. I thought we were going back to the East Wing.”

Remus shrugged. “I thought I heard something.”

“You didn’t say.”

He met her gaze, a pleading look coming over him. 

“All right,” she said. “Lead the way.” 

As they walked, Lily racked her brain for something innocent to discuss. What was it with everyone’s bloody _moods_ lately? Germaine was so closed-off. And Remus was never short with her, not even when he looked so plainly ill. 

“The food prank,” said Lily. “How does it work?”

Remus cocked his head, though he looked just as relieved as she felt about the change in topic. “How d’you mean?”

She gestured at the ceiling. “Well, you don’t see food floating around, so it obviously isn’t enchanted to move. But James said there are specific targets. If the food isn’t following its target, then it must have some way of knowing when a target is nearby… But I can’t figure out how.”

Remus smiled. “I didn’t think anyone paid that much attention to what we do, save for Filch.”

Lily smiled back. “You know you lot drive me batty. Well? What’s the secret?”

“It would hardly be a secret if I told you, would it?”

“I can’t believe it,” said Lily, laughing. He looked _so_ pleased at this line of questioning. “You’re really like the others.”

“You’ve lost me again, Lily.”

“I mean — you’re really like the other Marauders. You _like_ being a troublemaker.” At his sheepish grin, Lily laughed again. “Remus John Lupin, you devil. You’ve got everyone fooled.”

“Hardly,” he said. “Not as long as you’re keeping watch, at least. I’m sure you’ll figure out how the food prank works. By the end of the school year, probably.”

Lily made a face. “Only about eight more months. You must think so highly of me.”

“Lily Evans works hard, but the devil works harder,” said Remus with a modest smile.

The words were so strange coming from him, Lily burst into laughter again.

If James had it his way, there would have been a plan. All three of them would have gone to the Transfiguration classroom at the same time. Peter would’ve transformed into a rat and snuck in to see what was going on. Then he’d report to the other two. Armed with this information _and_ the map, they would have the proper element of surprise. If they needed to call Remus, they would. He would ditch Lily — in James’s mind, anything from literally running away from her to casting a Stunning Spell was an acceptable method — and come find them. 

But they _weren’t_ together, and James _didn’t_ have the map, and Lily would probably not allow herself to be ditched. And Sirius was being a fucking idiot, which, evidently, James hadn’t prepared for. 

He had spent the entire hurried journey to the first floor fuming — so he stopped short, surprised, when he spotted Sirius _outside_ the classroom, apparently waiting. James looked up and down the corridor to confirm that it was, indeed, empty, and pulled the Cloak off himself and Peter.

Sirius didn’t look surprised to see them. “What if it’s a trap?” he said.

James laughed, incredulous. “ _Now_ you’re thinking of the possibilities, are you?” 

“What was I supposed to do? They’re mini Death Eaters, the lot of them, and we’re stuck just watching them—”

“Exist?” James offered. But he took the map when Sirius extended it to him. Sebastian Selwyn, James reckoned that was a fifth-year. Regulus. Mulciber, Avery, Thalia Greengrass… _No Snape_ , James realised. He registered a touch of disappointment.

“We can take them,” said Sirius, looking over James’s shoulder.

“Can we try to listen in on them first?” said Peter, glancing nervously at the door.

The corridor _was_ silent. James reckoned they had cast some kind of muffling spell. “ _Finite Incantatem_ ,” he whispered. Nothing happened. “Well, make yourselves useful,” he told the other two.

They cast the counter-spell together — and suddenly, they could hear the murmur of conversation. There was a soft thud, which made Peter flinch. Silence descended again...until there was a bang that made them all jump. Sirius swore. Inside the room, someone was laughing — a girl’s voice, pitched in a whine, was saying something — and James could hear a horrible whimpering. Another bang — and an inhuman shriek—

James scrambled for the mirror. “Remus. _Now_.” 

Then they went for the door.

Was having flexible morals bad? Lily wasn’t sure. She slowed automatically when they approached McGonagall’s office. The door was ajar; McGonagall’s familiar voice was audible from the corridor. 

“What?” Remus said. He had gone a few steps ahead of her.

Lily hushed him, and inched closer to the office. “Wait, she said something about—”

“It’s a done deal,” McGonagall was saying. “Albus can hardly say no to Crouch.”

Remus went still. Lily raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

“A few trainees, did you say?” The other voice was also a woman’s — Sprout, Lily realised.

“Trainees, with someone to lead them, I expect,” said McGonagall.

“It doesn’t sit right with me,” Sprout said grimly.

“Nor me. But — Crouch.”

“Oh, I know.” Sprout sighed. Then, with a touch of humour in her voice, she said, “This means we’ll be seeing a lot of your old students in the corridors again, hmm?”

McGonagall snorted. “Yes, when you put it that way, it does sound like a recipe for chaos.”

Former students? _Trainees?_ Lily had a hunch she knew what they were discussing — but she couldn’t be sure. She just had to listen a little longer…

But her chance was foiled by the strangest thing. The corridor was empty — she _knew_ it was — but out of nowhere, _James’s_ disembodied voice said, “Remus. _Now_.”

“What the hell?” Lily hissed. Remus was frantically searching his robes. “Remus — what the hell was that?”

“What,” McGonagall said, “is going on?”

Lily straightened. Both professors had come out into the corridor, their expressions stern. She didn’t even think Sprout _could_ look so serious. She hoped to God it wasn’t obvious that they’d been eavesdropping.

“Sorry, professors,” said Remus. “Lily and I are on patrol.”

“I can see that,” McGonagall replied, eyeing them. “I thought I heard Potter.”

“Well, he’s not here,” said Lily, trying for a smile. “I imagine he’s in bed, Professor.”

McGonagall narrowed her eyes. “We should all hope. Carry on, then.”

Lily let out her breath and started along the corridor again — but this time Remus had stopped. She turned around, gesturing impatiently for him to follow. He was looking not at her, but at Sprout and McGonagall; his uncertainty was hardening into resolve.

“Professors, I think… I think you should come with us,” he said.

“Come with you? Whatever for?” said Sprout, clearly taken aback.

McGonagall, however, looked resigned. “Where to, Lupin?”

“Er — the Transfiguration classroom.”

“But — _why_?” Sprout said.

“Well — I think someone’s in trouble.”

Lily watched this exchange with a sinking feeling. Of course — his reluctance to go near the East Wing all night, his strange behaviour, and then James’s odd message… She ought to have known. No, she _had_ known, but she had thought she shouldn’t press it. What on earth were they up to now?

“Then lead the way,” McGonagall said.

Whatever concealment charm the Slytherins had cast on the classroom was broken when they burst through the door, casting _Finite Incantatem_ again together. But James could see shimmers of its evidence all along the wide windows that overlooked the courtyard. They were gutsy, using a first-floor classroom that was so conspicuous — but of course, Filch could not cast the counter-spell necessary to hear what they were up to. And Filch would not have known they were here at all…

The Slytherins were in two groups, each surrounding a creature that looked like a small squirrel, or possibly a ferret. Selwyn’s wand was pointed at one; it was trembling, shrinking away from him. James’s stomach twisted when he saw the other — it was dead, clearly, its limbs splayed out horribly. 

They all looked up in unison at the Marauders’ entrance.

“ _You_ ,” Mulciber snarled, and James thought _Levicorpus!_ With a shout, Mulciber was hoisted up by his ankles, his wand clattering to the floor. 

Beside him, Sirius cast the Full-Body Bind on Avery, who snapped comically to the ground.

“Oh, _for goodness’s sake_!” Greengrass shouted, flicking her wand. James only just managed to keep hold of his own wand — she had tried to disarm him. Surprising: he thought she would have freed either of her friends before making a move of her own.

Selwyn threw a jinx at Sirius, who deflected it and moved towards the fifth-year — and his brother. James knew he ought to do something, stop him — although, what was he going to do anyway? — but Greengrass cast a hex at him and Peter just then, distracting him. And Avery had wormed his way towards the dead animal, and he was angling _his_ wand towards it—

“Stop it!” Regulus was shouting. “Stop it — you said you were going to come alone—”

“Well, I fucking _lied_ , you should know what that’s like—”

And then a powerful force was pushing them all apart. James could barely keep his balance as he was shoved to the wall. McGonagall and Sprout stormed into the room, wands aloft. Remus and Lily scurried behind them.

“Wands _down_ , all of you!” McGonagall barked. “And Potter, put Mulciber down. Now!”

Reluctantly, James cast the counter-jinx. Mulciber fell to the floor and came up glaring at him. McGonagall waved her wand and Avery struggled to his feet as well. 

“Which of you can explain to me what in _Merlin’s name_ is going on?”

James straightened. “Professor, they—”

“—were doing Dark magic—” Sirius was yelling.

“They walked in and attacked us!” Thalia Greengrass said. “I tried to stop them—”

“Bullshit,” Sirius said furiously. “ _Bullshit_. They were practising Dark magic, and we _found_ them—”

“Did you see any Dark magic?” said McGonagall, dangerously calm.

“No,” Sirius said, deflating. “But—”

“But we saw an animal,” said Peter all of a sudden. “It was... _dead_.”

At that, some of the anger on McGonagall’s face faded. She looked around the empty classroom. “Where is it?” she asked the Slytherins.

But James had noticed what Peter hadn’t. The flagstone floor was clear of any small animals. At some point during their scuffle, one of them had Vanished the dead creature.

“It’s gone,” said James, knowing exactly how this looked. “They got rid of it.”

McGonagall sniffed. “Did they.”

“I have no idea what he’s talking about, Professor,” Greengrass said primly.

James rolled his eyes. Sprout and McGonagall exchanged a glance. Sensing, perhaps, that the students would spend more time arguing with each other than answering their questions, Sprout gathered the Slytherins while McGonagall faced her own Gryffindors. 

“You can’t really believe them over us, Professor!” James said the moment she’d turned to them.

“I _want_ to believe that you aren’t inventing a dead animal to fit your story, Potter,” she replied. “But it’s your word against theirs. And I’m afraid hearsay isn’t enough when you are accusing a fellow student of using Dark magic.” She looked from him to Sirius to Peter. “I will see all of you in detention next week. Ten points each from Gryffindor.”

Immediately they all began to protest.

“You were out of bed,” said McGonagall, her voice now thick with fury, “and you were _duelling_. This is fair punishment.”

Sirius scoffed. “Are you even going to ask them what they were doing here?”

“Leave my job to me, Black. I’ll thank you to behave as a student should." She grew even colder. "Please remember that _you_ have exhausted your second chances. I cannot show you lenience after tonight." Sirius shut up promptly; McGonagall turned to Lily and Remus. “You two, escort these boys to the common room. And _all_ of you can stay in Gryffindor Tower for the rest of the night.”

Lily blinked. “But, Professor, our patrol—”

“Professor Sprout and I are very much awake and can see to the castle, thank you. Go on.”

In short order they slouched out of the classroom. 

“Really, Moony,” James muttered. “You brought McGonagall?”

“Do _not_ start on me for being the only reasonable one here,” said Remus, but he too looked disappointed at the night’s results. “Did you really not see them doing anything...else?”

“I’m certain they were up to something with those squirrels,” Sirius said, his expression tight. “The _sounds_ they were making—”

“’Cept, we won’t know,” said Peter. “And how can we know, after tonight?”

James snorted. “What, d’you think they’re going to get detention and then decide not to mess around with whatever they’re doing anymore? Not a chance. They’ll lie low for a few weeks, then they’ll be at it again. And we’ll know.”

“And _how_ will you know?” Lily burst out. “Come to think of it, how _did_ you know? And — how did you speak to Remus?” She threw her hands up in frustration. “What in Merlin’s name just happened?”

The Marauders exchanged glances. This, James thought, was exactly why he hadn’t wanted her around. She asked so many bloody questions, and he didn’t want to have to deflect all of them.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Sirius.

She glared daggers at him. “Given that I allowed Remus to drag me around the West Wing all night and pretended not to notice something was going on, I think I’m owed some sort of explanation!”

James sighed. It was better to give her something, or she’d never let up. “They left Sirius a note,” he said, “inviting him to join. We knew they weren’t exactly operating above board, so we looked into it.”

“And how could you have known that?”

“What would they be doing in an empty classroom in the middle of the night?” said Sirius, exasperated at having to repeat this line of reasoning.

“Also, the password that revealed the message was the Black family motto,” said James. “ _Toujours pur_. As in—”

“‘Always pure,’ I know my French,” said Lily, but her expression had softened into thoughtfulness.

“Yes, as in some bunk about blood purity. So.” 

Lily shook her head. “But — why would they be doing this...whatever they’re doing, outside of the Slytherin dungeon? That seems the simplest meeting place.”

“Apparently they’re dense enough to think I believe the same crap as them, but they know not to let me into their common room,” Sirius said. “They’re notoriously secretive about it.”

James thought about this for a moment. “But they didn’t know you’d be coming. When you asked for the location, Regulus said the classroom.” 

Sirius scowled at the mention of his brother. Before he could speak, though, Remus said, “Does that mean they’ve got other non-Slytherins? There were none tonight.”

James nodded, smiling a little. _Here_ was something to solve. Something to do. Sirius was right. Those bigoted pricks couldn’t carry on however they pleased. If there _were_ non-Slytherins at their meetings, then there would be others, in places the Marauders could get to as well. And he did like a puzzle. 

“They _will_ try again,” James said, realising something new. “They’ve done it for weeks now. Remember Rowle and Davies?”

Sirius let out a low whistle. “They were injured. They tried to push back Quidditch—”

“—only Hooch wouldn’t let them. Talkalot never would say what happened to them.”

“Christ.”

James put his hands into his pockets as they entered the Fat Lady’s corridor. Yes, there was the familiar crinkle of the map, and the soft fabric of the Cloak, which he’d shrunk. All the tools he needed. 

“We’ll get them,” he said cheerfully. “Hullo, _Gossamer_.”

It made sense. It really made sense. This was all Lily could think of as they stepped through the portrait hole. Whatever they’d been practising… well, Lily did think the Marauders had their biases, but she wouldn’t have put it past them. Awful, creepy Mulciber — and Avery too, that git. And any sort of duelling practice would explain Avery’s odd nonverbal prowess. How long _had_ they been at it? Avery had jinxed Severus in the very first Defence class. 

That stopped her short. _Severus_. How snippy he’d been with her when she’d asked about _his_ nonverbal spellcasting. 

“You all right, Evans?” James was at the bottom of the boys’ staircase, the Marauders trooping up ahead of him. 

Lily realised she had been frozen in place. “Fine,” she said. “Only thinking about...everything.” Chewing on her lip, she looked up at him. “What do you think they’re practising for?”

Some of the serenity fell away from him at that. Grimly, he said, “If we don’t stop them, I expect we’ll find out.”

How matter-of-factly he’d said it too. 

“Surely you don’t plan on following them around every night?” Lily said. 

He shrugged. “If you want to do it any faster, here’s an idea. Ask your friend Snape.”

Lily flinched. “He’s not my _friend_. And he’s — he wasn’t even there tonight.” 

Why was she defending him, she wondered, when she herself had considered his culpability already? It was like an instinct she couldn’t suppress. Muscle memory. 

James gave her a derisive look. “Isn’t he your friend? You defend him like he is.”

“Against unfounded accusations,” she replied. “I’d defend anyone on that front.”

“You can’t have it both ways when it comes to him, Evans. If you don’t get that through your head, you’ll find out, and it won’t be pretty.”

“And why can’t I have it both ways?” She was angry now, really angry. “Who are you to decide?”

“I’m not _blind_ ,” he retorted. “ _He_ tried to have it both ways with you — you, and his twisted blood-purist friends. Look how that turned out.”

She half-stumbled backwards, as if she’d been slapped. “I don’t need you to remind me,” she hissed. To her embarrassment, tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. But if she’d thought that would make him back off, she was wrong. 

“Yeah, except you do need the reminder,” said James. “Because you _don’t get it yet_. He chose them. Not you.”

Lily was shaking. “I believe in second chances,” she said, fighting to keep her voice level. “But you really, _really_ test my faith, James.” And without waiting for him to answer, she stormed up the girls’ staircase, wiping at her cheeks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh did you think i'd forgotten about updating? never! finally, some action, and some funky goings on. i wonder what the slytherins were up to..... ;)
> 
> i realise my pattern so far has been "lily has a nice interaction with one of the other marauders" and then "lily argues with james" lmaoo. please forgive me. but, comment and leave kudos and perhaps they will have a SOFT MOMENT soon?? hm???
> 
> thanks so much for reading!  
> xoxo quibblah


	7. Something Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Dorcas considers Michael Meadowes not-quite-a-friend, but they're study partners. Sirius's uncle Alphard passes away. Lily and Remus overhear McGonagall and Sprout talking about changes at Hogwarts. Regulus invites Sirius to a mysterious meeting. The Marauders all go and catch Slytherins in an unused classroom after hours, but are unable to prove to McGonagall that they were using Dark magic. 
> 
> NOW: It's the week of Sirius's birthday. And...are there new faces at Hogwarts?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another quick mention/implication of animal abuse, so trigger warning for that.

_i. One Track Mind_

Dorcas Walker knew she wanted to be an Auror when she was a little girl. She could remember the exact moment she’d decided it, too. Her parents had taken her to a Squib Rights demonstration in London; she had clung to her parents’ hands and stared, wide-eyed, at the crowds of cheering people that filled Diagon Alley. They’d had shimmering signs and magnified voices, and it had felt more magical and powerful than any trick Dorcas could imagine. Far more magical even than when her dad caught the tea kettle before it began whistling, or when her mum found her missing sock, always. 

That feeling had stayed with her until they’d gone home and the Walkers had filtered into the kitchen, turning on the radio while they cooked dinner.

“— _Reports of violence at a Squib Rights demonstration in Birmingham just coming in_ ,” a grave voice said, interrupting a weird WWN special about haircare potions. “ _The death toll is unconfirmed so far, but estimates say that five have lost their lives… Many more lie wounded… Minister for Magic Eugenia Jenkins strongly condemns what she calls a pure-blood riot… Stay tuned for comment from Squib Rights organiser Idris Oakby_ —”

Her mother had dropped a spoon with a clatter and hurried to the wireless. Her father pulled Dorcas close.

“ _Dark magic is said to have been used on the crowds — Aurors are now pursuing those involved—_ ”

“Dark magic?” Doe had repeated.

A shadow crossed her father’s face. “It’s the worst kind of magic. It’s pure evil, Dorcas — you stay away from anyone who says otherwise.”

She’d nodded. “What’s an Auror s’posed to do?”

“Stop people who use it.”

A simplistic answer, perhaps, but one that more than satisfied young Dorcas — and one that fuelled her ambitions for years. She was less naive about the role Aurors played _now_ , and wasn’t so silly to believe that all of them were perfect. But Doe believed she could reform the less savoury parts of the department, if she could get there first. 

Some of her classmates had been surprised when she’d expressed this desire aloud, finally, after Careers Advice in their fifth year. Doe supposed she saw the — misguided — logic in this. She was rather even-tempered and preferred to avoid conflict when she could. But of course, Aurors couldn’t be hotheads just because it was an intense job. That was ridiculous. Aurors ought to be sensible, have their heads on right — they ought to believe in justice, but they needed compassion as well, lest they grow far too unyielding. 

She’d launched into this explanation the moment she’d sat down for her meeting with McGonagall, who had listened to the whole thing without interrupting.

“—and that’s why I think I could be a good Auror, basically,” she’d finished, a little out of breath.

McGonagall had smiled a little. “I didn’t need convincing, Miss Walker. You have the marks for it, after all. I only wanted to warn you, it’s not the easiest profession. It’s difficult even to enter it.”

Dorcas had nodded eagerly. “I know! Frank Longbottom is in training right now — I owled him at the start of the year to ask him what he thought I should do.”

“And what did he say?”

“Well, to study hard. And that he’d tell me how his training was going. At least, whatever parts he was allowed to tell me.” She made a face.

McGonagall had nodded slowly. “You seem to be thinking the right way. I am happy you’ve found your direction. Do remember, though, that you needn’t stick to something only because you’ve always wanted to do it.”

Dorcas had frowned. “But—”

“I’m not trying to dissuade you,” said McGonagall quickly. “I don’t think I could if I had any desire to. Keep it in mind.”

 _That_ hadn’t felt very auspicious, but Doe really did try to tell herself McGonagall was right. She didn’t want to commit too much to one career path. What if she _did_ fail Auror training? And, well, she enjoyed learning other things too. That was why she was still taking Ancient Runes. 

The memory of that meeting swam back to Doe as she sat in the library opposite Michael Meadowes. His head was bent over his parchment; he hadn’t looked up since they’d sat down and started working. But Doe’s mind had wandered far too frequently. She didn’t _want_ to disturb him, but—

“Why can’t we do something fun?” she said, her voice pitched low for fear of Madam Pince.

Michael looked up, frowning. “Well, we get to go to Hogsmeade soon.”

“No, that’s not nearly soon enough… I mean, something fun, indoors, _now._ ” She sat back, trying to find words for what she felt. “Do you know, I’ve just about given up everything I used to do for fun.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like… Ghoul Studies! I took it only because it sounded funny and I wanted to know more about it. And, I used to do Art as well. But who’s got time for that, now that we need to worry about N.E.W.T.s? We’re too old, so we’re supposed to be focused on the right things.”

“I know what you mean,” said Michael, sighing. “If Quidditch commentary required anything more than _being_ at the matches, I would’ve stopped that too.”

It occurred to Doe just then that Michael — hardworking, clever, dedicated Michael — probably had ambitions as fervent as hers. She had never thought to ask him. 

Flushing a little, she said, “What… what are you studying so hard for? What d’you want to do after Hogwarts, I mean?”

“Research, I reckon — historical spell construction and linguistics. There’s tons of different traditions all around the world.” A small smile had snuck onto his face; Doe wasn’t sure he even noticed. “I’d love the travel, too.”

She coughed a little, looking away from him. She’d been staring.

“Hence the Ancient Runes,” she said.

“Yeah, hence the Ancient Runes. I wouldn’t deal with Anderberg unless i had to. You’re brave.” He grinned, and she rolled her eyes.

The conversation faded to comfortable silence. Michael looked deep in thought, though he hadn’t picked up his quill once more. Doe turned back to her essay, unable to hold in a small sigh. She’d stopped mid-sentence, and now she had no idea what she was trying to say. _The wormwood infusion then_ — then what? Oh, bother.

“We should go paint,” said Michael suddenly.

Dorcas blinked. “Paint? What d’you mean?”

“It’s Saturday,” he said, as if that made things obvious. “The classrooms will all be empty. We can go do — Muggle Art, or magical Art?”

“You’re _serious_ ,” Dorcas said, taking in the manic grin he now wore. “Oh, Merlin, this is a ridiculous idea and we should be working…”

“You haven’t figured out what the — wormwood infusion does in the past twenty minutes,” he said, squinting at her parchment. “I think you need to give your brain a break.”

“The cheek of you,” she muttered, but she began packing her things. “All right, let’s go. Magical Art, though, because I want _moving_ photographs of whatever shite you produce.”

* * *

_ii. En Garde_

The end of October always put the Hogwarts population in the grip of great paranoia. You see, Sirius Black’s birthday was November the third, and he was turning seventeen this year. The third was a Wednesday, but owing to the Quidditch match on Saturday — or, more accurately, the full moon that weekend — all partying had been postponed to the next weekend, after the Hogsmeade trip. With the safety valve set to release so far after Sirius’s actual birthday, the other students spent their days worrying about what awful prank the Marauders had thought up to celebrate the occasion.

Because there was _always_ an awful prank.

The food had finally found all its targets, and the boys had — rather graciously, they thought — got rid of the last few items, since they had grown so badly mouldy. In between trying to trace the Slytherins’ nightly activities, the Marauders had indeed managed to plan something new. So everyone was right, really, to be anxious.

On Saturday morning, the four boys arrived in the Great Hall together, well after the start of breakfast. The moment they sat down, a spectacularly flashy fireworks display went off, red and gold sunbursts filling the enormous hall. All the students could do was hunker down and cover their ears until it had passed. 

“That’s all?” someone said in the seconds of deafening silence that followed.

It was not all.

A horde of disembodied voices suddenly began to harmonise, like an unholy angelic choir, and launched into a song about Sirius’s noble deeds. Three minutes later, after he had been lauded for slaying a rogue dragon, inventing wands, and winning the Quidditch World Cup for England, the voices finally subsided. He hopped onto a bench and bowed. Some younger students did, in fact, clap.

“Are you pleased with yourselves?” Mary said to the snickering Marauders, rolling her eyes.

“Rather,” said James brightly. 

“Well, I’m glad I was here for the show. Now I can go about without wondering what you have in store.” She turned back to her breakfast. The Marauders burst into laughter again.

What Mary did not know — but would soon find out — was that there was still more to this birthday trick. The fireworks and the choir magically followed Sirius around _all day_ , sounding without warning whenever he walked into a new room. And of course, he made sure to roam the halls far more than he otherwise would have. Surely it would end before classes began again on Monday… but there was no such thing as _surely_ when it came to the Marauders. Hogwarts resigned itself to a very noisy weekend indeed.

In the Art classroom, Doe and Michael peered at the canvas they had been working on.

“It’s supposed to be modern, sort of,” said Doe, frowning. 

They had tried to artistically splatter the surface, using their wands to conjure up colour. But the magical paint worked rather like normal paint, and the reds and greens and blues were beginning to muddy together to become a flat brown.

“Modern shite, that’s for certain,” Michael said.

Dorcas laughed. “No, look, we can try and salvage it — you get that corner with green, and I’ll add some yellow here—” They raised their wands to the canvas once more.

They’d been at it for the better part of an hour, and Doe found she was quite enjoying it. Michael was a great study partner, but he was...fun to talk to about things other than Ancient Runes and how much homework they had. They might qualify as friends now. 

She concentrated on the blotchy shape she was drawing. It had really been a while since she’d done this — anything from footsteps in the hall to Michael’s gaze on her threw off her focus. _Damn_ , there she went again.

“Sadly, I think our vision has exceeded our talents,” Doe said, leaving another, smaller splotch by the first one. “It’s honestly the biggest—”

And then a sudden cascade of bangs and crackles filled the room.

Doe whirled around — colour still flowing from her wand — to confront whatever had appeared. Michael cursed, following suit.

“Where—”

But it was...fireworks? And then a choir sang, “ _Sirius Orion Black! Sirius Orion Black he is seventeeeeeeeeen—_ ”

“Oh my God,” Dorcas said. “Oh my _God_ , I’m going to kill those boys.”

Michael was laughing — rather hysterically. 

“What is it?” Doe turned towards him. But she saw it too — in reacting to the noises, they had turned their wands on each other, leaving strange discoloured patches on one another’s clothes. Michael’s blue shirt now had an enormous yellow streak across it, running over the side of his neck and his ear as well. Doe pressed a hand to her mouth.

“Oh, Merlin, I’m so sorry—”

“It’s all right, I got you too.”

There was indeed a series of green splotches on her blouse, Michael’s hand being more unsteady than hers. 

“Well,” Doe said with a sigh, “I did want to take funny moving photos.” 

With a sly smile, she flicked her wand and left a blue splatter across his cheek.

His jaw dropped. “Okay, you’ll regret that—” 

That evening, students filtered down to the Great Hall for the Halloween Feast, chattering excitedly. They had mostly recovered from the horrors of random singing and firecrackers and were ready for the night’s entertainment now. Rumour had it that Dumbledore had contracted an operatic banshee to perform at the feast, which was both a fascinating and horrifying thought.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Germaine was saying as the girls came down the stairs to the Entrance Hall. “Banshees’ cries are supposed to kill you. That’s the whole point.”

Mary was shaking her head already. “Sure, and every vampire has an unquenchable thirst for human blood.”

“Again, that’s the _whole point_ , Mare—”

“I’m saying, they still live in human society, don’t they? I’m sure they’ve figured out a way—”

“Don’t banshees perform with Celestina Warbeck?” said Dorcas thoughtfully. She had spent the late afternoon magically removing the paint from her clothes — a task that shouldn’t have been so hard, she thought, only since it was _magical_ paint it had mixed itself up in all sorts of weird ways. The pink flowers on her blouse were stained slightly green.

“There you go,” Mary said triumphantly. “If they perform, then obviously they know how to do it without killing people.”

Germaine frowned. “Well, I don’t exactly want to find out…”

“Who’s that with McGonagall?” said Lily, her gaze fixed on the group of people by the enormous castle doors.

Their damp and windswept appearance clearly indicated they had just come in. Most of them were young, Lily thought, or they looked to be not much older than students themselves. One was Edgar Bones, she realised. The wizard was grinning as he spoke to McGonagall, gesticulating wildly. And there were other familiar faces as well. 

“That’s Frank Longbottom,” said Doe, her face brightening. “And — Edgar Bones! Wait…”

Lily nodded slowly. “I think…they’re all Aurors. Or Aurors in training.” Belatedly she remembered the conversation between Sprout and McGonagall that she and Remus had overheard. So her guess had been right. “I think they’re here for us.”

“Us?” Mary repeated.

“Not _us_ us,” said Doe. “Us as in Hogwarts. Right, Lily? They’re here to guard the school.”

Germaine’s eyes were wide. “No bloody way.”

“Well, what other explanation is there?”

Lily inched closer to the Aurors. Yes, Doe was right, there _was_ Frank Longbottom, and his girlfriend Alice St. Martin… and Marlene McKinnon, a Gryffindor who’d been a year above Frank. Three other relatively young Aurors stood by the trainees she knew, along with a morose-looking wizard with an exceedingly pale face and a shock of fair hair. He was sniffing repeatedly, like he had a cold, or was just very unhappy with whatever McGonagall was saying to them. Lily thought he looked like the tragedy mask next to Edgar Bones’s cheerful face.

Standing a little to the side was a grizzled wizard some years older than Bones; his sharp gaze travelled over every inch of the Entrance Hall. He had a wooden leg, Lily realised; the base of it was just visible below the hem of his cloak.

Dorcas gave a little gasp and clutched Lily’s elbow. “That’s Alastor Moody!”

The name sounded familiar… “Who?” Lily said.

“He’s an Auror — he’s supposed to be one of the best. His whole family were Aurors before him. I can’t believe he’s _here_!”

Doe’s voice had risen a little above the murmur of conversation; others, too, seemed to recognise Moody and the other Aurors. The steady flow of bodies into the Great Hall had slowed until the students were quite blatantly gawking at the newcomers. 

McGonagall, of course, picked up on this immediately. “Stop staring, all of you,” she said brusquely. “Go on into the Great Hall. Our guests will be introduced to you shortly.”

“Oh, I won’t be staying, Minerva,” said Moody gruffly. “The others will head to the feast. I’ve words for Dumbledore.” He started towards the stairs; the press of students parted for him.

“Well,” McGonagall said, pitching her voice even louder, “ _go_ on! Let Mr. Moody through — Potter, Black, close your mouths, for goodness’s sake—”

But just as Alastor Moody reached the top of the staircase, and just as the students had begun to move into the dining hall again, and _just_ as conversation had resumed, there was the now-familiar cacophony of fireworks.

“Oh, hell,” Germaine groaned. “Cover your ears and keep moving, come on—”

Except the sound was far from familiar to the Aurors. Shouts of alarm came from their group; Lily could see that several of them had drawn their wands and were looking about for the source of the sound.

The loudest reaction of all, though, came from Moody himself. With his wand out at the top of the stairs, he looked like he was the star of a dramatic stageplay.

“What the devil is that noise!” he roared, his voice audible even over the fireworks. “Show yourself, villain! _Well?_ ”

Dorcas was muffling her shocked laughter with her fist. “Oh, Merlin…”

James and Sirius pushed past the girls, frantically making their way into the Great Hall. “Sorry, we _really_ need to be inside right now, move, move—”

* * *

_iii. Family Business, revisited_

“Preemptive protection again?” Lily asked, leaning over Dorcas’s shoulder to peek at the _Prophet_.

“Oh, yeah,” said Sirius from across the table, his mouth full of toast. “Trust me, now that he’s got a slogan that’s alliterative, you’ll never hear the end of it.”

The slogan in question was Barty Crouch’s doing; it had been splashed across the papers every day now since the Aurors’ dramatic Halloween arrival at Hogwarts. Doe had expressed surprise at the fact that they had Aurors to spare — even trainees, who made up the bulk of the guard. But in Crouch’s very publicly-expressed view, the sacrifice of personnel was well worth it. He did not want to wait for something to happen at Hogwarts before students were, well, protected. Hence the name. 

The average student didn’t feel the impact of this change, really, though it had only been a handful of days. The trainees were all two or fewer years out of Hogwarts, and even the most uptight of them did not seem like _adults_. Well, other than the man who, along with Bones, was in charge of the group. The unhappy wizard Lily had noticed that first night was Ethelbert Fawley, nephew of the man who was head of the Auror Office.

“Cushy posting, that,” Mary had commented, when the Gryffindors had gathered in the common room to discuss the new faces.

“Not if you’re an Auror,” Sirius pointed out, “and you want to be in the thick of things, but your uncle doesn’t want you to die so he sticks you with the babysitting job.” Mary had rolled her eyes. “ _And_ you’ve got a name like Ethelbert. Bless him.”

Now, Sirius looked up at the faculty table, where professors’ empty seats were filled by Fawley and a trainee he didn’t recognise. At least two Aurors were always in the Great Hall at mealtimes. The rest, he supposed, patrolled the hallways, though he couldn’t fathom how that was an efficient rotation. Hogwarts was a bloody big castle. They were bound to miss something. Hell, the Marauders had missed details on the _map_ before.

He wasn’t sure how they would manage their usual nighttime activities now that there were more authorities to watch out for. True, they had the map, but they did not all fit under the Cloak anymore — even if Peter transformed, the other three of them had trouble being both quiet and unseen under it. Sirius reckoned they could take their chances running into Longbottom — and perhaps McKinnon too — but this was another obstacle to their nightly freedom they’d have to work around. Obstacles made him bloody impatient.

In any case, they would find out how it went that weekend. The full moon was coming up, and they’d need a way to sneak out after Remus. 

Sirius took another enormous bite of toast. With one crumb-covered hand, he fished out the letters he’d received that morning — quite a chunk. The handwriting on the very first one stopped him short. _Andromeda_. He knew his cousin would have written about Alphard. Probably she would be on the same bloody talking point as his uncle — _have you spoken to your brother, he never writes me, I’m worried_ … 

He scowled and shoved the letters into his pocket. Regulus had his own notions of how the world worked. Sirius was certain, now, that he could do little to alter them — every time he thought of his brother, he remembered the godawful _squealing_ noises they’d heard from outside the classroom, and he felt a little bit ill. Well, mostly he felt angry.

“Move,” a tight voice said at his shoulder; he turned around to see Mary Macdonald standing there, her expression stormy. “Well?” she snapped. “I said budge up, I’d like to eat my breakfast!”

Sirius did as she’d asked, his own thoughts momentarily on hold. “Merlin, what’s got you in such a mood?” Lily and Dorcas were also watching Mary with undisguised concern.

“Don’t — want — to talk about it!” Mary said, punctuating her words by stabbing a knife into a grapefruit. 

“Are you sure?” said Doe.

“Bloody positive.”

Sirius decided not to say anything else; he sat by her in silence as she hacked at her fruit and muttered under her breath about _fucking men_ who are _worthless_ and _Ravenclaws are s’posed to be smart_ —

“What have you done?” said a male voice from behind him.

Sirius sighed. “Mate, she’s as angry as a Hippogriff right now, so I wouldn’t press the point if I were you—” But when he turned around, he realised the boy wasn’t there to talk to Mary at all.

It was Regulus, two spots of colour high in his cheeks. A letter was clutched tightly in one fist; he was breathing heavily.

“You didn’t have to run all the way,” Sirius said mildly.

“Don’t turn this into a joke!” Regulus shook the crumped-up parchment at him.

Sirius put his hands up in surrender. “I honestly have no idea what you’re on about. Oh, unless — this isn’t about your little duelling club, is it?”

“What’s going on?” James was right behind Regulus, his brow furrowed; Remus was behind _him_.

“Glad your posse is here for this,” spat Regulus.

“Fan club,” corrected James, dropping to the bench beside Sirius. “That’s the term we prefer.”

Regulus ignored him, looking back at Sirius. “Didn’t you read your post?”

“Not yet.” They were starting to attract an audience, Sirius realised; it was fairly early in the breakfast hour, and students hadn’t yet started to trickle out towards their classes.

Regulus’s laugh was a single, sharp _ha_. “She blasted you off the tree.”

This statement was rather opaque to the hushed Great Hall. But the magnitude of Regulus’s words was made clear by the immediate reaction on James and Remus’s faces. There was no doubt, in their minds, who _she_ was.

For his part, Sirius still looked perfectly calm.

“Did she?” He picked up another piece of toast and began to butter it too.

It was clear that his nonchalance was making an already-frantic Regulus furious.

“Yeah, she fucking _did!_ ” 

If the Great Hall had been quiet before, it fell utterly silent at Regulus’s shout.

“Hmm,” Sirius said. “Interesting. Did she say why? So I can pass on the advice to future generations of Blacks that might be worth a damn.”

Something dangerous flashed in Regulus’s eyes; James, watching carefully, prepared to jump to his feet and keep the boy away from his friend.

“ _Read_ your letters,” was all Regulus said.

Sirius shrugged and pulled out the stash of letters he’d tucked away. He could look at Andromeda’s later, he didn’t suppose that was why Regulus was so worked up. The next was an unfamiliar, blocky script, stamped with a Ministry logo. _That seems important_.

He tore it open, still working at his own leisurely pace. He intended to read the entire thing, very slowly — perhaps aloud, dramatically — but as he skimmed it he went still. ... _reading of your uncle Alphard’s will...the entire contents of his Gringotts vault...to you alone…_ Wordlessly Sirius handed the letter to James and Remus.

“Merlin,” Remus mumbled; James swore.

“She knows,” Regulus said, “she _knows_ you’re going to take the money and run — she knows — she said he’s got heirlooms in there, and — and things that ought to belong to the family — she blasted him off the tree too — but this was what you wanted all along, wasn’t it! You asked Alphard to give you enough to break away. Finally.”

Sirius met his brother’s gaze. “You give me too much credit. I never asked him for anything. He told me he’d leave me _some_ money — certainly not this much.” Then he let himself smile. “I wish I’d thought of this sooner. I could’ve asked Alphard to give me a few Galleons and made a big song and dance about running away, and she’d have let me leave long ago.”

Sirius raised his glass of water towards his friends. “Cheers, I’m an orphan now.”

James snorted. “Don’t be thick. You’re just as much of an orphan as I am. C’mon, if you don’t live with us, Mum and Dad will disown _me_.”

“Well, thanks to Alphard I’ve got enough to live on.”

“Don’t. Be. _Thick_.” James rolled his eyes. “You’re coming home for Christmas.”

And Sirius grinned. He was really, _really_ fucking done with them all. It felt — incredible. 

“Aren’t you — aren’t you _upset_?” Regulus burst out.

Sirius started; he had forgotten his brother was still standing there. 

“Christ, why would I be?” he said, chuckling. “You said it yourself. This is what I’ve always wanted.”

Regulus’s shock hardened into cold rage. “Fuck you,” he said, very quietly, and he swept out of the Great Hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was also a quick chapter, whew, some important stuff had to get out of the way. i realise that now on a technicality i've defied canon again lmao bc sirius is supposed to move in with james when he's sixteen, and here it all goes down right after sirius turns 17... but oh well. 
> 
> next chapter is called snitches get stitches, and the quidditch season is FINALLY here! quidditch matches are just about my favourite things to plot and write so hopefully you all will enjoy that. depending on how long it is i might have to split off the second half...but jily moments are on the way, and i promise lily is going to get her head on straight abt snape soon.
> 
> as always, thanks for reading!  
> xoxo quibblah


	8. Snitches Get Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Germaine settles her Quidditch nerves through flying practice with Emmeline Vance. Two Slytherin Quidditch players were injured, and the captain tried to have their match against Gryffindor postponed, but that failed. Mary admits that she has feelings for one specific boy. The DADA professor, Thorpe, has a father whose radio show is basically anti-Muggleborn propaganda. Awkward!
> 
> NOW: Gryffindor takes on Slytherin in the first Quidditch match of the season. The gang heads to Hogsmeade and engages in light protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HEARD YOUR PLEAS! Forgive any errors, I wanted to get this up as soon as possible so I'll be editing it soon. But leave a comment/kudos if you enjoyed <3

_i. Clean Sweep_

The morning of Gryffindor’s first Quidditch match dawned bright and blue. It was the sort of November day one dreamed of — clear skies, the sun just warm enough to make sitting in the stands bearable, and only the lightest breeze wafting off the Great Lake. The girls, sans Germaine, were at breakfast, appropriately sporting their red-and-gold scarves. 

“I ought to start paying attention to Quidditch,” Mary said, spearing her eggs with a precise stab of her fork. “I could _really_ get into it. Pick a team and read up on it, and all that.”

Sirius, who was sitting nearby sporting a Gryffindor-red scarf, made a loud choking sound at this. 

“You? Quidditch?” he repeated, incredulous. 

Mary turned her cool gaze upon him. “ _Yes_. I already know a lot about music and footy and it unnerves blokes.” She arched her eyebrows. “So, it’s funny seeing how they react.”

“Does it work if you’re still learning about Quidditch for guys?” said Dorcas thoughtfully. “Even if it’s to spite them?”

Lily shrugged. “If it gives you joy, Mare. Just make sure you’re a Harpies fan. I don’t want to hear you and Germaine argue about Quidditch, of all things.” 

Despite the censure, Lily was grinning as she ate her breakfast. She and Dorcas and Mary had roughly the same level of interest in Quidditch: they reckoned it was a fun game and liked to watch it, and that was the end of the matter.

For Lily, the draw was really how much house spirit was on display. Too often Hogwarts took house rivalries far too seriously. But Quidditch — that was a genial sort of enmity that she could get behind. Well, even if it was quite a dangerous sport. Most Quidditch injuries could be quickly fixed with magic...couldn’t they?

The morning of a match was never a good time to ponder this, Lily decided. But her mind found a worse topic instead: James, who at that moment strode into the Great Hall in his Quidditch robes, grabbed a slice of toast, and began chatting with Sirius. Lily didn’t know if they were supposed to be in a fight. Or did their truce still stand?

She regretted their earlier argument, of course — but why was _she_ the one who had to keep apologising and smoothing things over and making certain they were on good terms? _Let him try to get along with me, for once_ , she thought, as he swept out of the hall again. 

She was still staring after him when the Aurors-in-training came jogging into the Great Hall. Marlene McKinnon and Frank Longbottom were dressed no different from any Gryffindor student. Marlene even had her face painted, half-red, half-gold; as she walked the length of the table, she held out her hand and high-fived several younger students. 

If Lily was amused, Doe was positively glowing at the sight. Whenever the Aurors were near, Doe looked so obviously excited to see them that Lily couldn’t help but grin at her friend. 

“Morning,” Frank said, coming to stand by the sixth- and seventh-years. “Ready for a win, eh?” This he directed at the seventh-year players. Only James and Germaine were already at the pitch at this hour. 

“Obviously,” said Isobel Park, raising her goblet. 

“Glad we got the stadium shift,” Marlene said. “I mean, we’re working and all.” She gave the students a meaningful look. “But I’d hate to be _inside_ the castle when almost everyone’s out there.”

“I still don’t get how you do your shifts,” said Doe, clearly hoping for an explanation. 

But Marlene only winked. “Secrets of the trade, young one.”

Frank shook his head, smiling. “Poor Alice and Edgar have the indoor shift.”

“Oh, Merlin, that means—” Mary began. Lily elbowed her before she could finish speaking, guessing where that sentence was going just as Ethelbert Fawley strode into the Great Hall, looking characteristically morose.

“McKinnon, Longbottom,” Fawley said, his gaze sweeping over the Gryffindor table. “Ready for the match?”

Marlene’s expression had grown just as sombre as his. “I am ready to discharge my duty. The match is incidental.” Frank Longbottom stifled a snort. “I should go keep an eye on the pitch. Merlin knows some students will head on early.” Before Fawley could come up with a protest, Marlene had hurried out of the hall.

“Right,” said Fawley faintly. “Breakfast, Longbottom?” And the two Aurors proceeded up the length of the hall for the teachers’ table. 

“Do you think he’s actually a good Auror?” said Doe, watching them go. “Or is it a nepotism thing?”

“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out,” Mary said.

 _That_ line of thinking hadn’t occurred to Lily at all. A chill passed over her. Shaking it off, she smiled at her friends and said, “Why don’t we go to the stadium? I’ve had enough of sitting around.”

Germaine’s dad had once taught her breathing exercises. Some sort of complicated inhale-exhale pattern was supposed to settle your nerves — only she kept mucking it up, and her thoughts wouldn’t go away, and suddenly she would find herself wondering if she’d be sick on her broom the moment they called her name.

It was stupid to be so worried. She knew that. Even James, who was more serious about Quidditch than anything, was relatively relaxed at the thought of playing Slytherin. Word was that the team had really struggled with its drills because of the students who’d injured themselves. Germaine couldn’t imagine what kind of injury would have required missing much practice.

But the Slytherin captain had been in a rage about it for weeks. So, really, in the grand scheme of things, this game wasn’t such a big deal.

Except that it was. And it would be. And she’d be awful if she didn’t get her head on straight, now.

She squeezed her eyes shut and dropped to the floor. She tried to forget the slightly stale smell of the changing rooms, tried to replace it with the crisp earthiness of the Quidditch pitch. Her regular flying practice had stopped being so lonely of late — she and Emmeline flew together more often than not. They rarely spoke, but that was how Germaine liked it.

It was peaceful instead of intrusive, and she’d have been lying if she said it didn’t flatter her when Emmeline, obviously a skilled flier herself, doled out the occasional compliment. It was as though she’d found the woods again, and those long summers of ducking around branches and listening only to the wind had been transposed to Hogwarts, a little pocket of tranquility. 

If only she could recapture that calm for the game.

The empty changing rooms were suddenly full of sound as the rest of the team traipsed in. “We win or we die trying!” Evan Wronecki was shouting; Quentin Kravitz, who'd been a second-string Chaser last year, hooted in response. The Beaters, Isobel Park and Bert Mallory, had the new Keeper sandwiched between them. The three of them moved to a corner and began stretching, keeping up a constant stream of chatter that Percy occasionally chimed into. Germaine chewed her lip in silence. 

James brought up the rear, having shepherded the others to the changing room. Germaine half-hoped he would go join in the stretching, but he made a beeline for her instead, handing her an apple and a goblet of pumpkin juice.

“No flying on an empty stomach,” he said, gently but firmly.

Germaine took both from him, but made no move to eat or drink. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, her voice faint.

James smiled, unperturbed. “You’ve said that every single game. It hasn’t ever happened.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” But some of the fluttering in her stomach settled; Germaine swallowed some of the juice. 

“If you insist on getting a pep talk from me, fine. You’re here because you’re a great Seeker. If you weren’t, I’d have played someone else. So.” He shrugged, as if this ought to put a rest to all her worries. Germaine raised her brows. James sighed, adding, “Regulus Black’s going to be distracted. You can take advantage of that.”

Before she’d had a chance to respond, James turned to the rest of the room. “Enough chatter!” The others fell silent, moving closer to where Germaine and James stood. 

“We all know Slytherin’s a bit of a mess today.”

“Too right,” Evan said.

“But that doesn’t mean we play to their weaknesses. We are always playing to _our_ strengths. I want to see every one of us doing our fucking jobs out there, all right? Practice is nothing like game time.” This he directed at Percy, whose smile had faded. “We don’t see another house after this for a long while — Hufflepuff in March. So make sure you’re focused every damn minute. Or we’ll have extra daggers tomorrow.”

It was a testament to how seriously the team took this moment that none of them groaned.

“If we win,” said James, “we’ll only have the usual number.” At last he grinned. “Let’s put on a clinic.”

In the Gryffindor section of the stands, students huddled together for warmth and booed energetically as Michael Meadowes called out the Slytherin players. Lily and Mary and Dorcas had their arms linked, staggering to their feet unevenly as the Gryffindors flew onto the pitch. “I hope Germaine isn’t too nervous,” Dorcas murmured as they clapped. 

On the ground, Germaine had her eyes shut when her name echoed through the stadium. With a deep breath, she mounted her broom and shot off into the sky.

“Talkalot,” James said cheerfully, shaking the Slytherin captain’s hand.

“Potter,” she replied, her eyes narrowed. “See you on the other side.”

“I expect you’ll be seeing a lot of me during the game as well.”

“And — Gryffindor with the Quaffle to start,” Michael Meadowes was saying. “Potter, to Kravitz — starting the season for the first time as Chaser, is Quentin Kravitz. Back to Wronecki — _well_ , Talkalot will swallow that one up easily.”

James retreated as Lucinda hurled the Quaffle to one of her Chasers. It was good to test the Keeper early, but risky to test her _too_ much, lest she settle into the match early and grow used to turning every attempt of theirs aside. The next one needed to be an actually challenging throw. Rowle had the Quaffle now, but Isobel sent a Bludger whizzing his way. The Slytherin saw it early enough to execute a clumsy Sloth Grip Roll, losing the Quaffle in the process.

James allowed himself a moment to scoff — that was what being injured at a stupid amateur duelling club would get you — then pivoted in time to receive a pass from Quentin, who’d swooped down to grab the loose Quaffle.

“With you!” came a voice half-swallowed by the wind; without looking, James tossed the Quaffle to Evan. The two of them bore down on Lucinda, who stayed square to the shooter until, at the very last moment, Evan passed back to James, who batted the Quaffle into a hoop.

“First blood for Gryffindor!” Michael Meadowes said, and the crowd erupted.

Several Gryffindor goals and failed Slytherin Sloth Grip Rolls later, Percy Egwu missed a goal attempt, giving Slytherin its first ten points of the match. The fourth-year was so visibly miserable as he started play again, James was almost tempted to tell him it was all right. There was plenty of time left on the clock, of course, but they had a healthy buffer of points between them.

Still, if Percy had wanted a clean sheet, James couldn’t blame him. Slytherin was nothing short of sloppy in its offensive drives — the Chasers had clearly not practiced together enough. Talkalot was a fan of fancy formations, but any strategy was moot if your players hadn’t got the hang of it before a match started. 

“That,” Evan said, after another Slytherin fumble had led to a Gryffindor goal, “would’ve worked if they had four Chasers.”

James was inclined to agree. Even when the other team had settled into the match a little more, throwing some genuinely threatening attempts at Percy, the Gryffindors answered. When the Gryffindor Chasers combined for their eighteenth goal of the game, James braced himself for the commentary that was bound to come.

“Don’t fucking say it,” he muttered.

But of course, Michael did. “That’s a 150-point margin for red-and-gold. For the Quidditch-averse, that means if Gryffindor can score another goal and maintain that margin until the Snitch is caught, nothing Slytherin does will matter. They won’t even need to catch it to win.”

If he’d been in the stands watching two other teams play, James might have laughed at how poetic it was. Because just then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Regulus burst into motion, Germaine a few beats behind him.

“They’ve spotted the Snitch! And — Slytherin with the headstart!”

“What are we supposed to be aiming at?” Bert Mallory said, pulling up short by James.

The two Seekers were moving too fast; if the Beaters aimed for Regulus and hit Germaine instead…

“Let King do her job,” James said. “You two, stop Slytherin from scoring.”

As the Beater flew away, James pulled back, waiting for Talkalot to pass on the Quaffle. But instead of tossing it to one of her Chasers, the captain flew forward herself, Quaffle tucked under her arm. _Merlin’s tadger_ , James thought, not without admiration.

“Looks like Talkalot is going to try a Hail Mary!” Michael Meadowes said.

“What’s a Hail Mary?” said Evan Wronecki.

“Eyes on the Quaffle,” was James’s only reply.

With one extra ‘Chaser’ in Lucinda, the Gryffindors were outnumbered. Still, James liked their chances — Rowle was a shaky flier, and Davies, the other injured player, had been missing Bludgers all morning. 

“Get ready to run Butterfingers,” he told Quentin and Evan. 

“What about defending?” Quentin said.

“Trust me. She’s going to turn it over.”

Without waiting for a response, James flew into Lucinda Talkalot’s way, moving backwards as she inched forward. There were no other players in his sight: just the Keeper, her mouth in a firm line, and her own goalposts far behind her. Of course Lucinda wasn’t a Chaser, but she ran a team. She had to know Chasers’ drills, had to have taken part in them over the years. It would be stupid to underestimate her. 

James chanced a look over his shoulder. The three Slytherin Chasers, unencumbered by Gryffindor’s defence, were in a triangular formation behind him, rotating positions every minute or so. He was too close to Lucinda for her to risk passing left or right, he judged; it would take him a simple enough dive to stop that. So where _would_ she go? 

“Bludger!” Lucinda yelled all of a sudden.

 _Bludger? But why—_ James’s body understood before his brain; just a split second after Lucinda, he tumbled into a Sloth Grip Roll, dodging the Bludger intended for him. She launched the Quaffle forward as she hung, upside-down, but James was just agile enough to grab it.

His broom leaped forward, jerking him the right way up, and he shot towards the unguarded Slytherin goalposts, the blood pounding in his head. He couldn’t have missed the hoops even from this far out, and he had Evan and Quentin on either side of him — but then he caught sight of Germaine and Regulus. A string of curses ran through his mind.

“Don’t miss,” James said, handing off to Evan before streaking towards the Seekers.

He could hear Michael Meadowes above the roaring in his ears: “Wronecki gets another for Gryffindor! But, Merlin, what’s King up to? Don’t try that at home—”

Everything happened at once, and then there was silence.

When Germaine opened her eyes, Sirius Black was peering at her face, far too close for comfort. 

“Oh, good, you’re alive,” he said. “You’re fucking _crazy_.”

“What happened?” she croaked. Her friends were crowded around her, as was the Quidditch team. They were in the Hospital Wing, she realised. 

“What happened is, you stole my spotlight.” James was in the bed next to her, looking incredibly pleased despite the circumstances.

Slowly, the last sequence of the match was returning to her. Germaine’s eyes widened. “I tried to—”

She was shorter than Regulus Black, a problem that had not _seemed_ like a problem until she’d realised the Snitch was within his reach and not hers. But if she stood on her broom, and jumped for it — she’d thought that would be possible. Ridiculous, but possible. And it was such a long fall to the ground; surely Hooch or someone would find a way to slow her down before then. What was a few broken bones? 

“Tried to jump off your _moving_ broom? Yes,” said Mary, shaking her head. “If that’s what you’re practising when you’re off by yourself at the pitch, I’m coming down to keep an eye on you.”

Germaine thought of Emmeline’s censure — _you’ll never get to do this during a game_ — and flushed. “Well, did I catch it?”

“No,” said James. “Good effort, though.” To the rest of the team, he said, “See, that’s what I mean when I say you’ve got to be one hundred and ten per cent committed.”

“Fuck,” said Germaine, sighing. “Hooch caught me, then?”

At that, James finally looked affronted. “Hooch? No, you bloody ingrate, I flew across half the fucking pitch to make sure you weren’t leaping to your death. Why d’you think _I’m_ here?” He was holding a bottle of Skele-Gro, she realised; he shook it at her angrily. 

“That explains it. Thanks, I suppose.”

“I couldn’t have replaced a Seeker in the middle of a season, so.”

“Shut up, James,” said Dorcas.

“I don’t know whether to hug you or scold you,” Lily said, giving Germaine a careful pat on the shoulder.

“Try scolding,” said James. “That’s what you did to _me_ before she woke up.”

“Why is there a circus around my patients?” Pomfrey called, hustling over to them with a furious expression on her face. “Out, all of you. _Out_! I’ve let you stay this long, haven’t I? And you!” She turned her gaze on Germaine, who shrank back. “That was absolutely barbaric. This is school Quidditch, for heaven's sake!”

“Would it be better if it were the World Cup?” asked James. “Just out of curiosity.”

The matron gave him a baleful look. “Not a word from you, Potter. Not a single word.”

“S’all right. Now that I know you were watching, I can rest easy.”

Germaine smothered a laugh at Pomfrey’s eye-roll. “I really am sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Madness, is what it is. This whole school’s got it. I’ve given you something for the pain, but you’ve taken your Skele-Gro so you should be right as rain. But _rest_.”

With a command like that, there was nothing Germaine could do but obey.

* * *

_ii. Dates_

“This,” Lily said, shaking her copy of the _Prophet_ , “is the worst bloody news I’ve ever woken up to.”

Dorcas was grimly nodding at her shoulder. “Not an exaggeration, honestly.”

They were standing in the Entrance Hall, waiting to depart for Hogsmeade. Doe had lost track of Germaine and Mary, so she had hovered awkwardly by Lily and Dex, searching for _any_ familiar face so that she might make an escape.

But given the topic of conversation, Doe didn’t feel like a third wheel at all. In fact, Dex was the one looking vaguely uncomfortable as Lily and Dorcas complained to each other. The WWN had picked up a new radio show for the winter season: Marcel Thorpe, a name the girls were beginning to hear far too often for their own liking. 

“An _hour_ of airtime!” said Lily, not for the first time that morning. “A whole bloody hour! It’s ridiculous!”

In the briefest pause before Doe could jump in to agree with her, Dex said, “Well, it’s not just him. He’s got a co-host now, doesn’t he? The WWN bloke can debate him, push back against his bullshit. Besides, the man’s got a right to express his fears, no matter how misguided.”

Dorcas and Lily were both taken aback by this interjection. Even more than before, Doe wanted to vanish into the crowd; she could feel Lily stiffen beside her.

“He isn’t entitled to time on wizarding Britain’s biggest radio show, no,” said Lily, fighting to keep her tone even. “It just gives him more of a chance to grow his fanbase.”

Dex shrugged. “Maybe I’m naive, but I don’t think shutting down dialogue is the answer.” 

Discomfited, Lily said, “We should probably just agree to disagree on this.”

“Oh, there’s Mary!” said Doe, a touch too enthusiastically. “I’ll be off, then — see you if I see you, have a nice day!”

Relieved to have found an excuse, Dorcas snagged Mary by the elbow and pulled her away from Dex and Lily. “Have you seen Germaine? We were supposed to go down together.”

“No, I suppose she’s in the loo.”

“Weak bladder,” Dorcas and Mary said at the same time, shaking their heads.

“In any case,” Mary continued, “I was looking for _you_. I’m going with Michael, to Hogsmeade.”

Doe took a moment to consider this. “Michael…?”

“Meadowes,” said Mary impatiently. “Don’t worry, just as friends. But I wanted to tell you.”

“Why would I worry? Why would you want to tell me?”

Mary rolled her eyes. “He’s your friend, Dork-ass. Don’t get so defensive.”

“There you are!” Germaine emerged from the crowd, a little breathless. “Sorry I lost you, I was in—”

“The loo, we know,” said Dorcas, for which Germaine elbowed her in the side. Doe turned back to Mary. “I’m serious, Mare, it’s fine if you want to date him.” What was her claim to him, that she’d _seen_ him first? Doe didn’t think she liked Michael that way.

“Well, I don’t, and he doesn’t want to date me. What I’ve been trying to say to you is, if you want to join us at the Three Broomsticks, feel free.”

“Big assumption you’re making there, Mary,” said Germaine. “What if we had plans?”

Sceptically, Mary glanced between Germaine and Doe. “What plans? Twiddling your thumbs?”

Dorcas jumped in before Germaine could argue. “I wanted to do a bit of shopping—” Germaine shuddered “—but we can join after, yeah?”

“It’s a plan. I’m going to go find Michael, then.” And then Mary was gone again, leaving only a trace of her floral perfume. 

By the time they’d boarded the carriages, the whiff of awkwardness brought about by their conversation had faded. Lily supposed there were worse stances for Dex to take — that Thorpe Sr.’s perspective was valid, for instance, and wizardkind really _did_ have to fear and hate Muggleborns. Although, it would have taken quite a bit of mental gymnastics if Dex thought that and was still dating her. In any case, she tried to put it out of her mind; for his part, Dex seemed to do the same.

“It’s a teashop,” he was saying, “and they’ve got the best damn pastries. Last time I was there, I tried to get the owner to give me the recipe, but she refused.”

“Even with your most charming smile?” Lily teased.

Dex grinned. “Shocking, isn’t it? But I’ll take any chance I get to go there now. The only shot I have at recreating them is tasting them, right?”

“I’m not opposed at all.” Lily looped her arm through his. It was an overcast morning, the chill reminding them all that it truly was November. Her scarf was quite enough to keep her warm — but there was no harm in standing a little closer, was there?

“It’s right down this road—” As they turned the corner, Dex came to a sudden, sharp halt. 

Lily fought to keep her balance. “What’s wrong?” She followed his line of sight to the closest building: indeed a little teashop, one that Lily vaguely recognised. But its storefront was now painted a bright pink, its lace curtains blindingly white.

“Did it always look like that?” said Lily, her voice hushed.

“No,” said Dex, sounding aghast.

“Was it always called Madam Puddifoot’s?”

“Yes, she’s the owner, but — maybe a new Puddifoot took over?”

Lily might have laughed at the look on his face if not for how genuinely distressed Dex seemed. “I’m sure the pastry recipes are the same. Why don’t we go inside anyway — we can laugh at the funny decor, if the outside’s any indication.”

“Why not,” Dex agreed, smiling a bit. 

As it turns out, they did not get much chance to laugh. Lily had managed to hide her snickering at the doilies and shocking-pink furniture, but the menu’s sickly-sweet tone was more than her self-control could manage. Somewhere between _True Love’s Tea_ and _aphrodisiac biscuits_ , she was in stitches; not long after, Puddifoot herself emerged to angrily demand that they leave. 

Wiping away tears, Lily leaned against the storefront, trying very hard not to start laughing again. “I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “You wanted the pastries—” 

“It’s okay,” Dex said, grinning. “As long as you enjoyed what you got out of it.”

“I really, really did.” Lily sucked in a deep breath, putting a hand on her chest. “Let’s just go to Honeydukes.”

Doe and Michael had exchanged pleasantries, saving a table as Mary and Germaine went off through the crowded pub to fetch them Butterbeers. After the requisite polite questions, though, their conversation had lapsed. Doe wondered if he felt odd around her, after last weekend’s paint fight. She’d thought it had broken any lingering ice between them.

Or was _she_ imagining the awkwardness? She felt a spike of resentment as her friends returned. If Mary would stop implying things about Michael, Doe would stop thinking them.

As if on cue, Mary slid Michael his Butterbeer and said, “So, Meadowes, have you got an eye on any birds around here?”

Michael grinned, making an exaggerated show of glancing around the pub. But then his smile slipped a little. “Not really. I had a pretty bad breakup this summer.”

The girls expressed their sympathy; Michael thanked them.

“You don’t have to talk about it, if it’s difficult,” said Germaine, trying to sound nonchalant and not curious.

Michael shook his head. “It’s not as bad as that. A few months have gone by, after all. Her name’s Katie, she lives near me. She’s a Muggle — that was sort of the problem. We’d been dating for nearly two years, and I was trying to keep the whole wizard thing a secret. I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t have.” He took a sip of his drink; the girls said nothing.

“Anyway, she thought I was batty, so she said she needed time and space. Only it turns out she needed time and space with someone else.” He pulled a face.

“Ah, Michael!” Mary said, horrified. “Fuck Katie, all right? Look—” Glancing around surreptitiously, she pulled a flask from under her sweater. 

“ _Where_ did you put that?” Germaine said.

“Why did you feel the need to hide it on your person?” said Dorcas. “You could’ve put it in a purse.”

Mary gave Michael a look, as if to say _do you hear these two?_ “Obviously, my tits needed to keep it warm. Christ.” She unscrewed the flask, pouring a splash into each of their Butterbeers. “You’re welcome.”

“Thanks,” Michael said, chuckling. Doe noticed the look of admiration he was giving Mary: the classic _look_ , she thought, except Mary wasn’t looking back.

“Anti-cheers time,” said Germaine. “Katie, what’s her last name?”

“Sorry — anti-cheers?”

“Just play along, Michael!”

“Halliday. Her name’s Katie Halliday.”

Germaine nodded seriously, raising her mug. “Katie _fucking_ Halliday.”

Grinning, Mary and Dorcas echoed her words, lifting their own mugs. Michael was a beat late following, laughing instead of speaking. 

“Katie _motherfucking_ Halliday, you give love a bad name,” said Dorcas.

“Katie _goddamn_ Halliday, how could you?” Germaine crowed.

“Katie _bleedin’_ Halliday, you’ll be sorry someday!” Mary said. 

“I’ll drink to that,” said Germaine, clinking her mugs to the others’ and taking a big gulp. “This tastes quite good, I’ll give you that, Mare.”

“Thanks,” said Mary. “It’s nail varnish remover.”

Michael choked. Doe sighed, patting him on the back. “You should know better around her by now.”

As conversation turned to other, less serious things, several unfamiliar students asked to share tables; Mary turned away each of them. 

“We should be nicer and just share,” Dorcas said.

“We don’t know any of them,” said Germaine. “It’d be weird.”

“They’re third-years. Of course we don’t know them.”

“But what if they asked to share our alcohol?” said Michael. “We’d be in a pickle then.”

“If it’s someone I like, there’s no reason for me to say _no_ ,” Mary said.

“Those fifth-years are scoping us out,” Doe said.

“Ugh, not _them_ —”

“Hi, sorry to interrupt!”

The voice was cheerful, familiar. The four at the table looked up to see Marissa Beasley and Doc Dearborn, Firewhiskys in hand.

“Do you have any room at this table?” Marissa went on. “Doc and I would love seats — but of course, it’s so bloody full—”

Doc rolled his eyes at her, but he was smiling. “You’re the one who wanted to wear heeled boots today.”

Marissa sighed. “Forgive a girl for trying to look good! Right, Mary?”

Mary laughed along, a beat too late. “God, we’ve love to, Marissa, but Lily and her boyfriend are coming, and so’re Peter and Remus. We’re full up ourselves.” She shrugged. “Best of luck finding a seat.”

“Oh!” Marissa’s face fell; she clearly hadn’t been expecting this response. “Thanks anyway. See you back at the castle, then.”

“Bye!” said Mary.

The other three exchanged glances as Mary watched the two Ravenclaws go.

“Okay,” Germaine said slowly, “what was that about?”

Dorcas gasped. “Merlin. Is _that_ —”

She didn’t finish her sentence; Mary faced them again, her expression stormy. She put down her Butterbeer with a thunk.

“He turned me down to go with Marissa _Beasley_?” said Mary, her voice dangerously low. 

“Marissa’s quite nice,” Germaine said.

“She fancies a bloke back home,” Mary snapped. 

“Wait — how do you know that?” said Michael. Doe and Germaine shushed him.

“ _How_ could this have happened?” Mary’s voice gained pitch and volume as the sentence went on, until she was nearly wailing. “ _Fuck_ him!”

“Does that mean—” Doe began.

“Yes, it does!” Mary said, putting her head in her hands. “Yes, I have feelings for Doc Dearborn, and he thinks I’m stupid and vapid and idiotic and he’s _with Marissa Beasley!_ ”

Didn’t anyone who shopped here ever crave ordinary chocolate? Dissatisfied, Lily moved from aisle to aisle at Honeydukes. Dex was looking for more things to incorporate into his baking; they had agreed to meet up at the cashier instead of chasing each other around the shop. Which was a good thing, thought Lily as she circled the rows of chocolate for the third time. That kind fizzed in the mouth, that sort had a filling… 

“I’d kill for some bloody Cadbury,” she muttered.

“Bloody Cadbury would taste pretty shit,” said a voice on the other side of the shelf was peering at.

“Hello, James.”

“Evans.” Now that he’d spoken, she recognised his shock of messy hair just visible above the top of the shelf.

“How do you even know what Cadbury tastes like?”

“I do live in the same country as you,” he said drily, coming around to stand next to her. “If you’re looking for a substitute, I think Gormley’s makes regular chocolate.” James skirted around her, squinting at the offerings. “Ah, shit.”

“What?” Lily stepped closer to him. 

“They’re out of the regular kind.”

She sighed, rocking back on her heels. “I suppose I’m just destined to eat funky chocolate, then.”

James laughed. “Are you restocking your hot chocolate supplies?”

Lily shook her head. “Mum sends me what I need. There aren’t really any convenient supermarkets around Hogwarts.”

“Ah, fair.”

“No, this is just to snack on.” She sighed. “I’ll do without, then. It’ll probably be better for me.”

James opened his mouth and closed it again. “Pity,” he said finally.

“What?” Lily was certain that wasn’t all he’d been going to say.

“Nothing. They’ve got pretty good dark chocolate, though, if you do want to experiment for your cocoa.” James pointed out a shelf to their right. “Maybe even some funky ones.”

Lily hated that her instinctive response to his helpfulness was suspicion; that, she thought, was something she needed to unlearn. Why couldn’t she just take her wins at face value?

“Thanks,” she said. “Are you here with someone?”

It was intended as an innocuous question, but Lily flushed when James arched his brow in response.

“Do I need a date to shop at Honeydukes?” he said.

“No,” said Lily quickly. “I was just asking.”

“Well, the answer’s no. Enjoy Fortescue’s company.” 

He was just this side of curt. With a backward glance, he wove through the aisles until Lily couldn’t see him anymore.

* * *

_iii. Airwaves_

“Underrated aspect of the Three Broomsticks,” Sirius said, without anyone having asked him to, “is the people-watching.”

He, Remus, and Peter had indeed found the Gryffindor girls and Michael, crowding around their table — and vindicating Mary’s rejection of Marissa and Doc, in her eyes at least. More splashes from Mary’s flask had gone around, until all seven of them were pleasantly buzzed and had fallen into a warm silence.

“There’s too many people,” said Germaine. “Who’m I supposed to be watching?”

“Easy. Look, Professor Thorpe is arguing with Marius Rosier.”

“Who?” said Doe, Michael, and Mary at once.

Sirius rolled his eyes, struggling to sit up straighter. “Professor — _Aprylline_ Thorpe, who teaches Defence Against—”

“Very funny,” said Doe. “Who’s Marius Rosier?”

“That fuckwit,” supplied Peter, pointing him out helpfully.

A tall, gaunt wizard was indeed engaged in heated conversation with Thorpe. His features were immediately familiar to them.

“Is he Alec’s brother?” said Mary, frowning.

“That’s the one,” Sirius said. “He’s a proper Death Eater wannabe.” He paused for a moment. “Unless he’s gone from wannabe to just... _be_ , which is a possibility.”

A hush fell over the table. Thorpe, seeming to tire of the argument, threw up her hands and stalked away. Rosier slunk in the opposite direction, pushing out of the door.

“Shit, that reminds me. I’m missing Thorpe’s show,” Doe said, sighing.

Michael looked alarmed. “I didn’t...know you were into that,” he said.

“I’m not,” Doe assured him. “I rage-listen to it. And then I call him and argue with him. It keeps me on top of his stupid talking points — so if I hear anyone using them, I know it’s because they listen to him and his sort.” She shuddered, taking a sip of her Butterbeer. “And _now_ he’s on the WWN.”

“Well, you know you can just walk over and tell them what you think, right?” Michael said, looking immensely relieved at Doe’s clarification.

“What?”

Remus seemed to catch on first. “The WWN office is right here in Hogsmeade,” he said slowly.

“Holy shit — let’s go,” Doe said. “Right now.”

Sirius held up a finger. “Vandalism is a form of protest.”

“One step at a time,” Germaine told him.

“She didn’t say _no,_ ” Sirius stage-whispered.

Doe jumped to her feet. “I’ll go spread the word. I can tell—” She searched the horde of students in the pub. “Amelia Bones!”

Mary groaned. “Not _her_ , please.”

“Oh, stop it, Mary. She cares about what’s going on and she has friends who do too.” Animated by purpose, Dorcas nearly charged off to find Amelia before another thought occurred to her. “We have to find Lily, though.”

“She’ll be with Dex,” Germaine said, frowning. “I have no idea where they planned to go.”

“Relax,” Sirius cut in. “We’ll ask James to find her.”

Remus and Peter exchanged glances, but did not argue with this course of action.

“It’s settled, then,” said Dorcas. “Tell everyone you know!”

“No,” James said into the mirror. “Absolutely not.”

Sirius sighed. “Mate, c’mon. Dorcas wants her there, it’s not like it was my idea.”

Peter and Remus exchanged a look once more.

“She’s with her boyfriend! How am I supposed to get her without looking like the biggest prat in the world?”

“Tell her the truth,” said Peter. “She’ll want to come.”

“But if you don’t know where she is,” began Remus.

James deflated a little. “I do know. We’re in Honeydukes right now.”

The _we_ made the three other Marauders blink.

“She and the boyfriend are here, and I am too,” said James, rolling his eyes. “Fine, I’ll fetch her. Christ.”

“See you there,” said Sirius.

Tucking the mirror away, James looked around the sweet shop. Lily and Fortescue had lingered for awfully long, but the seventh-year had finally gone up to pay for his things. Lily hovered by the door. James steeled himself, and strode towards her.

“Sirius just sent word; Dorcas wants you,” he said. 

Lily frowned. “She — what?”

“They’re going to go to the WWN office, and tell them what they think of Thorpe.”

James hadn’t needed to worry about how Lily would take this after all; she brightened as soon as he explained the plan. 

“We should’ve thought of that sooner! If we’d planned it before this weekend—”

“We didn’t _know_ about him until this morning,” James pointed out.

She waved a hand dismissively. “ _If_ we had. Anyway, yes, I’ll come right away.”

James reached for the door, and Lily seemed ready to follow. Later he would wonder — while cursing himself for wondering — what might have happened if Dex Fortescue hadn’t caught up to them just then. The other wizard looked none too happy to see James, which, he supposed, was not entirely unwarranted. 

“Where’s the fire?” Dex said, looking from Lily to James.

“My friends are going to the WWN office, about Thorpe,” Lily said. James noticed that she smoothly skipped over the fact that she’d nearly left without her boyfriend. “I think I’m going to join. But I understand if you don’t want to — it’s been a long day.”

Something passed between Lily and Fortescue; James was about to say something snide, but held himself back just in time. 

Dex nodded. “Yeah, I’ll see you around, then.” He pulled her in for a kiss; James glanced away, coughing a little. Finally, Dex walked off in the direction of the Three Broomsticks. Lily watched him go, and James watched _her_ watch him, until he cleared his throat to snap both of them out of this trance.

“We should go,” James said. 

“Oh! Yes.” 

They began walking down High Street. James wondered if he ought to say something, but couldn’t come up with a safe enough subject. He tucked his hands into his pockets and let Lily lead the way.

The WWN office was bigger than he’d expected — though of course, he reasoned, they had to broadcast out of it, so it shouldn’t have been such a surprise. Some two dozen students were crowded in the lobby, mostly talking quietly amongst themselves; at the head of the group, leaning on the reception desk, was Dorcas, with a stern-looking Amelia Bones beside her.

“Can you just give us the name of someone who’s in charge here?” Doe was saying. “Someone who had a hand in the decision to pick up Marcel Thorpe’s show?”

The flustered receptionist said, “I really can’t — I don’t—”

“I know you probably had nothing to do with it. We just want to ask about it. Isn’t that allowed? We’re your audience.”

Murmurs of assent filled the lobby.

“I don’t think — the office will close soon, since it’s a weekend—”

“We’re not here to hurt anyone,” said Amelia Bones, “we’re _students_. We’d like to speak with an executive.”

A man emerged from the hallway beyond the desk, arms crossed over his chest. “Look here, whatever’s going on—”

“Can we ask _you_ about why WWN picked up Thorpe’s show?” Doe said, turning to him.

The man looked flabbergasted. “That’s — what you’re here for?”

“Young people have opinions, you know,” Amelia said, her tone icy. Lily and James exchanged grins.

“Certainly, Miss—”

“Bones,” she supplied, clearly conscious of the effect her surname would have. Mrs. Bones was a senior executive at the Ministry.

The man registered the name with wide eyes. “Look, Miss Bones, WWN values a diversity of opinions.”

Doe, not one to be outdone, said, “What he says isn’t an _opinion_. It’s thinly-veiled anti-Muggleborn sentiment. It’s downright bigoted! Some of the brightest students here—” she gestured at the assembly “—are Muggleborn. We’re right up the road at Hogwarts, and we have to listen to _him_ on your show, talking about how our classmates don’t deserve to be there.”

“Yes, well—” the man began, reddening under the force of her stare.

Someone in the crowd shouted, “We’ll be outside your office every Hogsmeade weekend until you take him off the air!” 

The students sat in the lobby for several hours, keeping generally quiet. (Dorcas and Amelia shut down Sirius’s suggestion of Exploding Snap with glares.) Finally, the office closed in the afternoon, and the still-nervous receptionist brought in a security witch to escort the students out of the building. They filed out, dispersing into clumps and moving back towards the castle, huddled against the wintry cold. 

“Well! That was rather haphazard organising,” said Doe, a little out of breath from the excitement. “But I think it got people thinking — and made a point to the WWN folks.”

“I thought I heard some students saying they were going to take the story to the _Prophet_ ,” said Germaine. “That’d be interesting.”

As the Gryffindors started for the castle, Dorcas caught up with Michael. “Thanks for the idea,” she said. “You’re bloody brilliant.”

“Me?” Michael laughed. “That was all you.” He bumped her shoulder with his, and suddenly the November chill didn’t seem quite so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well hello! thank you for all the kind comments people have left since the last time i updated! i've had a bit of a frantic month, but i will get freer now, so hopefully that means more regular updates. anyway, hope you enjoyed this whopper of a chapter. the next one's called "stiff competition," and boy does it get shippy! it might be a while coming, though, because i want to properly outline a couple chapters ahead first. but anyway, thank you for reading, please leave a comment! 
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	9. Stiff Competition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Doe and Amelia Bones help organise a protest of the WWN office, thanks to Michael Meadowes. Lily's dating her summer boy, Dex Fortescue. She and James are in a truce, but things aren't exactly easy between them — as always! A group of Slytherins were caught practising magic in an empty classroom after curfew; soon after, the new Auror Office head, Scrimgeour, sends Aurors and trainees to Hogwarts for students' protection. Germaine has been practising flying with the enemy, Ravenclaw Seeker Emmeline Vance.
> 
> NOW: Lily asks Mary one awkward question, and James several awkward ones. Doe and Germaine go to a Quidditch game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment!! kudos!! love you all!

_i. Sixteen Going on Seventeen_

November had just about flown by in a chilly daze. The days started to take on the repetitive quality they always did in the middle of term: classes began to blur together, and the not quite winter made Lily antsy for Christmas. That, at least, she could enjoy. In the meantime, though, the one shining spot in the gloomy month was Dex. Which was why, one morning in their dorm, Lily conspired to be alone with Mary.

“Mare,” she said, her tone perfectly casual.

Mary was fiddling with a brand-new wireless; one of her many admirers had assured her it would tune into Muggle stations, despite whatever interference Hogwarts caused. So far the thing had not proved effective. Lily didn’t think the boy had a chance anyway, but she felt sorry for him nevertheless. Mary looked up at the sound of her name. 

“Yeah?”

“How did you know you were ready to have sex? The first time?”

Lily hadn’t expected to be able to get the words out right away; she blinked at her friend in just as much surprise as Mary did at _her_.

“Well,” Mary said cautiously, as though she recognised that a dramatic reaction would spook Lily, “I wanted to get it over with. I think when you have _that_ feeling about it, you’re probably ready. But that’s not the only sign of readiness.”

“I don’t think I have that feeling.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

Lily chewed on her bottom lip. She was sitting on the rug, leaning against her bed. “Hmm.” She could feel herself flushing. Was it too late to take it back? “I don’t mean to—” 

Mary cut her off. “Do you want to? That’s sort of the first step.”

 _Did_ she? “I — don’t know,” Lily said honestly. She felt ambivalent about...waiting for love or for marriage, or what have you. She couldn’t just do it with _whoever_ , of course. But her boyfriend wasn’t just anyone. And they’d been — well, it wasn’t _sex_ , but things had been a little hotter and heavier than usual, so to speak. She knew she was growing redder by the moment. 

“You don’t have to worry about it until you do know,” said Mary decisively. “Unless he’s pressuring you into anything?” A dangerous calm came over her. 

“No! No, nothing like that. I was only wondering…” Lily realised she’d been seeking some sort of reassurance from Mary, but she wasn’t at all certain _what_ sort. She didn’t know if Mary could give it, either. 

“Look, Lily. Sex is whatever you want it to be. It can be — meaningful and special that first time, or it can be just for fun. I mean, ideally it’s fun either way. But, point being, you have your whole life to have it, and your whole life to have different kinds of it. Don’t overthink it. Do what feels right.” At the end of this speech Mary smiled, and said, “Okay?”

“Okay,” said Lily, a touch hesitant. She knew Mary was trying to be helpful. But her friend’s words swimming around her head only made her more confused. 

Mary’s smile had dropped at the look on Lily’s face. “It seems like you’re waiting for something.”

Lily’s hands fluttered into a helpless half-shrug. “Maybe? I think I’m waiting for the right moment. It seems wrong to plan it.”

“Wrong, or embarrassing?”

No, Lily had been wrong. This interrogation was far, far worse than a confusing little speech. “I don’t know,” she said again, putting her face in her hands. “I just wish there was a guidebook for what to do and when. But I also wish things could just be spontaneous.”

Mary laughed, prying Lily’s hands away from her face. “Things are only as spontaneous as you make them, Lily. Besides, Fortescue isn’t keeling over anytime soon. You don’t need to have all the answers.”

Lily squeezed Mary’s hands. “You know that’s easier said than done for me.” She rose to her feet. “I think I’m going to take a walk.”

“You’re not upset, are you?”

“I promise, I’m not. I need to get out of my head, is all.” 

Mary did not look like she entirely believed this excuse, but did not argue. With one last reassuring smile, Lily twisted a scarf around her neck and made her way out of Gryffindor Tower. Hufflepuff were playing Ravenclaw that morning, which explained where Germaine was. Scoping out the enemy on James’s instructions, no doubt. Lily thought she heard the crowd erupt into a roar; she remembered all the stupid stunts Gryffindor’s match had involved, and hoped to God nothing of the sort was happening again.

She avoided the pitch, starting towards the Lake instead. It was decidedly not the right weather for lakeshore socialising, and the front of the castle was devoid of any clumps of students despite the fact that it was the weekend. _How perfectly depressing_ , Lily thought. She could’ve been the only student in the school. Sighing to herself, she groped for the crumpled pack of cigarettes stowed away in her pocket. 

“So much for kicking the habit,” she said to herself aloud, lighting one with the tip of her wand and settling onto a nice patch of dried-up grass. Well — as nice as could be, for November. 

“Shame,” said a voice behind her.

Lily jumped about a foot into the air, nearly dropping the cigarette. It was only James, hands tucked into his pockets, an innocent smile on his face. 

“Merlin, never sneak up on me again,” she said, laughing a little. “What are you doing here?”

James quirked an eyebrow. “I was taking a walk, thinking about how no one would be here, and I wouldn’t have any probing questions to answer.” He grinned, taking the edge from his words.

Lily rolled her eyes. “I meant why aren’t you at the pitch, is all.”

James grimaced, sitting down next to her. “The game’s over.”

Lily frowned. “Over? But — I thought it would’ve only just started—”

“Ravenclaw are really quite good,” James said sadly. “Maybe it’s a good thing I stumbled upon you after all. Less time to think about playing them.” He eyed her cigarette. “I didn’t think you smoked.”

Lily sighed, lifting it to her mouth. “I wish I didn’t. I try not to at school, but it’s been a weird morning.” She saw the curiosity in his eyes, and realised she needed to change the subject right away. Even thinking of explaining the details of her conversation with Mary to James was wreaking havoc on her blood pressure. “One for you?” She held out her pack to him.

His expression shifted into sternness. “My body is a temple, Evans. Why would I get that gunk in my system?” And then he took a cigarette and lit it. 

Lily snorted; she thought she saw him smile. They smoked together in silence for a few minutes, watching the Lake’s still surface. Of course the combination of this company and this location made Lily think of last year after their Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.

The requisite twinge of shame, of hurt, struck her. It was hard to reconcile this... _comfortable_ vision of James beside her, lounging on the grass perfectly happy being silent, with perhaps her worst recent memory. She worried, all of a sudden, that she was on the verge of saying something that would spoil this tranquil moment. 

So she said, instead, “The Aurors are thinking of starting a Duelling Club.”

The slightest crease appeared between James’s eyebrows, although whether this was in response to the actual subject at hand or simply the suddenness of her speech, Lily could not be sure. 

“What for?” James said.

“Teaching protective magic. That’s what they said to the prefects, at least. And as an outlet for students interested in… combative spells.” She gave him a meaningful look.

His frown deepened. “That doesn’t actually solve the problem of the Death Eater wannabes. They don’t want protection against Dark magic. They want to practice it. And teaching them the spellwork people use against it only makes them more likely to figure out how to get around them.”

“By that logic we ought to make Defense Against the Dark Arts opt-in,” Lily pointed out. “You’re probably right about Mulciber and Avery and that bunch. But isn’t it a good idea to prepare everyone else?”

He was quiet for a moment, blowing out a stream of smoke. “You really think they’ll need to be prepared — for something. Some kind of attack.”

Lily glanced at him, surprised. He hadn’t asked this as a _question_ , not really, but— “You don’t? I mean,” she added hastily, “not that I think we’re about to be hurt tomorrow. But...what with the way things are going, I don’t think we can be ready soon enough. Especially if you’re right about what Mulciber and them were doing the other night.” 

She braced herself for a defensive comment, but all James said was, “I think I do too.”

Lily nodded. “You’ll join, won’t you?”

“Yeah.” A hint of confusion entered his voice. “Are you asking because you think I should?”

“Well, yes,” Lily admitted with a small laugh. “Not because I think you can’t protect yourself.”

James smiled. “Kind of you to worry for my safety so much.”

She rolled her eyes. “I mean, if you and your friends join then — other students probably will too. It won’t be a boring extracurricular that’s being forced on us. It’ll be...if not fun, then cool.”

At this James properly laughed, a full-belly laugh with his head thrown back. Lily puffed at her cigarette, waiting for him to collect himself. An explanation would be forthcoming; he did not laugh at her without letting her know why.

No, that was an unfair thought. It would be more accurate to say he was open about what he felt — though so much of him seemed to exist behind a locked door she didn’t think she would ever pass through, James had an easy way about him. Call it confidence, or arrogance; Lily supposed she would have leaned towards the latter in years past. 

“What is it?” she said when his laughter had subsided to chuckling.

“You think I’m cool,” he said, grinning.

Lily pulled a face. “Really? _That_ was your takeaway?” At her exasperation, he began to laugh again. Lily huffed. “I don’t think you’re cool. I mean that the Hogwarts population at large thinks you’re cool. What does it mean to be _cool_ anyway?”

“I see through you, Evans.”

“No, you don’t,” she said automatically, rolling her eyes. “Look, about our truce,” she started, before she could stop herself.

The mirth did not entirely fade from his expression, but he grew visibly wary. “Has anyone ever told you you have a bad habit of picking at things best left alone?”

“Not in so many words, but yes,” Lily said wryly. “I just wanted to say—” She shifted so she was facing him, the better to read his expression. “I do think the truce has become a safety net of sorts. More like a catch-all apology than a real truce, d’you know what I mean?”

He sighed. “No.”

“We’re still shitty to each other. Except now we argue and then let it simmer, on account of our truce. But that’s not what a truce means. It isn’t — firing at each other during a stalemate, but that’s what we’ve been doing.”

James was avoiding her gaze now, picking at the yellowed blades of grass between them. “Your metaphor’s got legs,” he observed mildly.

Lily did not let herself react to this. It was in his nature, she realised, to push back when a conversation veered towards discomfort; it was in _her_ nature to push back when _he_ did. Thus they careened towards arguments, time after time. Lily came to this conclusion in a calm, detached sort of way, impressed at her own thinking. Perhaps it was the cigarette. _God bless Pall Mall_ , she thought.

“The point is, I’m sorry. I know we’ve already pulled a tabula rasa, but I want a proper one now. And — one in which we actually try not to be horrid.” This was more honesty than Lily had expected even from herself; she winced inwardly, wondering what his response would be.

James looked up at her, smiling a slanted sort of smile. “You’re right.”

“I’m what?” said Lily.

“You’re _right_. C’mon, you’re a smart bird, you know what that means.”

Lily scoffed, but she was smiling, altogether relieved.

“We can be nicer,” James continued. “I’m open to saying sorry once in a while. I thought I would only tolerate you, but you’re all right.”

She opened her mouth to protest, and he started to laugh again. “It was a joke!”

Lily relaxed. Of course it was, and maybe she did still feel a touch of stiff-backed affront when he said _it’s a joke, lighten up, Evans_ , but she could bite her tongue if he did the same. 

“We get along, when we try,” Lily said, pleased, as she took a drag of her cigarette.

“We always knew _that_.”

This took her by surprise; James said it with such simple assertiveness that she wasn’t sure what to think. Lily considered the fact that she and James could get along to be a recent revelation. Had he always thought they could? Why had he spent a good chunk of their school years aggravating her, then? Nothing made sense, but the crisp calm that smoking brought her allowed this confusion to simply exist. She could poke and prod at it later.

“If we’re being honest,” Lily said, with the cautious confidence of someone approaching a wild animal for the second time, “why’re you always so insistent about my not forgiving Severus? Do you really just dislike him that much?”

James lay down on his back, resting his head on a hand. “Picking at things, Evans.”

She said nothing, only looked at him.

“Let me put it this way. If Sni — if Snape were Mary’s friend and he’d said that to her, wouldn’t you tell Mary she ought to never speak to him again?”

Lily shifted uneasily. “Well, sure, but I’ve known him since—”

“—you were children, whatever. Say Mary did too. Would that change anything for her?” He raised his eyebrows at her meaningfully, as if he’d won his case already.

Lily sighed, looking back at the Lake. it would’ve been easier, far easier, if James had called Severus names and made snide remarks about his appearance. 

“So you’re me, in this situation? Telling Mary what’s best for her?”

“Don’t project, Evans. Your…” He hesitated. “The people around you can sometimes see you clearer than you can see yourself. You can’t fix everyone.”

“Me?” She met his gaze, frowning. “I don’t try to fix people.”

“Sure you do.” James half-sat up, counting off on his fingers. “You befriended Remus in third year, because he obviously needed it. You stuck around Snape longer than you should’ve, despite the company he keeps — no, let me finish. Isn’t that what this whole truce thing is about?”

Lily’s mouth fell open; she struggled for a moment to find words. “Surely you didn’t agree to get along with me if you thought I was making you my — latest _project!_ ”

“That’s not what I said either,” said James, seemingly unaffected by her shock. “Remus is your friend, not your project. I think you go around trying to extend redeeming offers. But redemption is internal, at the end of the day. You can’t force Snape into it, the same way you can’t force me.”

“I’m not forcing you.”

“No,” he agreed. “That’s what I tried to establish at the beginning of this conversation. You aren’t forcing me.”

Lily shook her head. “No — that’s — none of that makes sense.”

She was faced, again, with the part of him that was shut off. It was as if she’d been walking the halls of a house with perfect freedom, only to come across an entire locked-up wing. Only, why was she so intent on knowing him, anyway? Why did she always want to throw herself bodily at the door and force her way in?

“It really doesn’t make sense,” James said, nodding. Then he rose to his feet. “Last week’s Potions essay is calling my name, sadly.”

“ _Last_ week’s?” Lily repeated, latching onto something she could at last understand.

“Sure. If I want to go to Duelling Club, I’ll have to stay out of detention, won’t I?”

“You’re incorrigible.” She had to squint looking up at him; the sun, apparently, was brighter than the overcast sky made it seem. James was a blurry backlit impression of a person in her vision.

“As long as you don’t force it,” said James cheerfully. “Thanks for the cig.”

Lily watched him go, somehow feeling unsettled and realigned at the same time.

* * *

_ii. Two Minutes and Seventeen Seconds_

The Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables were buzzing at breakfast; it was their big Quidditch rivalry match, after all. Dorcas, spooning jam onto her toast at the relatively quiet Gryffindor table, wondered as she always did why these two games began the season rather than finishing it off.

In any case, it worked out all right this season. If Ravenclaw lived up to the hype, the final match of the year — Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw — would decide who took home the cup.

These thoughts swirled around her head because Quidditch was necessarily on the mind. Turning to Germaine, Doe said, “You’re not doing anything this morning, are you? Want to watch the game with me?”

“You’re going?” Germaine said. “Whatever for? I thought you wanted to work on your Ancient Runes essay.”

“No point in working on my Ancient Runes essay when my Ancient Runes study partner is the commentator, is there?”

Germaine only _hmm_ ed in response; Doe wasn’t certain what to make of this, so she continued speaking. “Anyway, Michael was the one who asked me to watch. But I think I’d like some company, so you ought to come sit with us.”

Dorcas had thought this a perfectly innocuous invitation. By the look on Germaine’s face, she’d clearly thought wrong.

“Wait, wait—” Germaine noisily set down her goblet of pumpkin juice, shaking her head. “A boy asked you to a Quidditch match, and you’re asking me to be your chaperone?”

Doe laughed. “It’s hardly like _that_.”

“Well, it is. Why d’you need me? That’s what Michael is for!”

“If you really don’t want to sit with me, you don’t have to,” Doe teased. “It’s not like he can speak to me, can he? Not unless we want one half of the conversation to be broadcast across the pitch. I thought you’d be excited to watch.”

Germaine started, looking almost...trapped. “Me? Why would you say that?” she said, a little too quickly.

Doe blinked. “Because...you play Quidditch? Because you want to scope out the competition? Because there’s nothing more pressing for you to be doing on a weekend, which I know for a fact is true?” Was she reading into Germaine’s odd behaviour? Whatever this was, she could get it out of her.

“Oh. Well. That’s all true, I suppose. I’ll come with you — but I _will_ leave if I start feeling like a third wheel,” she warned.

“You won’t,” Doe said, rolling her eyes. “You sound just like Mary.”

Germaine and Doe huddled together in the stands, feeling rather out of place in the sea of blue around them. It was _cold_ ; Dorcas was glad she’d invited her friend along. She could hardly have sat this close to Michael. Although — funnily enough, his voice wasn’t deafening, even though they were right beside him. The acoustic effect from his magical megaphone was such that he sounded as if he were across the stadium, his voice a pleasant boom.

Once the teams were called out and the captains met for the toss, Michael lowered his voice and said, “I’m glad you both came. None of my friends sit by me when I do this — the last time we tried, their cheering made _me_ cheer, and then McGonagall was _not_ pleased.” The professor in question looked over at the sound of her name, eyes narrowed; Michael gave her an innocent smile.

“No chance of us cheering, luckily,” Doe said. “Germaine and I will be booing no matter what happens. Right?” She nudged her friend, who was staring with a worrying intensity at the pitch.

Germaine started. “What? Yeah. No cheering.” She was preoccupied with her own thoughts. This was the first time she’d watched Emmeline play since they’d started flying together. Would that give her some sort of insight into the way the Ravenclaw thought the game? Germaine had only ever practised with Gryffindors; knowing their style of play was sort of the point. And then she thought, _why am I thinking myself in circles instead of just watching?_

She ought to have found her teammates. At least James and Isobel and Evan would be constantly talking, the better for her to focus on something outside her strange nervousness. It was nearly as bad as if she were playing the match herself.

Perhaps it was because she wasn’t certain where she and Emmeline stood. They were friendlyish. The last time they’d practised, the two girls had actually spoken — briefly, but it counted for something after weeks of silence. Germaine was not an extrovert, but she considered herself well able to make friends. It seemed as though Emmeline was the unfriendly one. Then again, she was friends with Amelia Bones, so clearly she _could_ make friends, so what was the—

“And we’re off! Hufflepuff with the Quaffle to start, which will probably be the last time they get their hands on— ahem, Johnston’s got the Quaffle, that is, _oh!_ Not anymore.”

Doe and Germaine both hissed; a Ravenclaw Beater had aimed the Bludger right at the Hufflepuff Chaser, who was unhurt but startled enough that she dropped the Quaffle. Stephen Fawcett, the Ravenclaw captain, swooped after it and shot off towards the Hufflepuff hoops.

“He’s scoring here,” said Germaine.

“How d’you know?” Doe said.

“Trust me.”

Fawcett feinted right; Chris Townes lunged too far, and the Ravenclaw easily tossed the Quaffle through the middle hoop. The Ravenclaws around them erupted into cheers; Fawcett flew past them, egging them on. 

“You’d think he just won them the game,” Dorcas said, amused.

“It won’t get any better,” replied Germaine, scowling. “Emmeline better catch the Snitch soon. I don’t want to hear about Fawcett all bloody week.”

“Emmeline who?”

But Michael answered that question for her. “Is — that — the _Snitch_? Merlin’s shining — sorry, Professor McGonagall. That _is_ the Snitch, and Emmeline Vance has got it. That’s the game for Ravenclaw, by a score of one hundred and sixty to _zero!_ ”

“Christ Almighty,” said Dorcas. “How much time was that?”

Michael was grinning. “For those of you in the audience who weren’t keeping time, that was two minutes and seventeen seconds of game play. One for the record books, eh?”

Doe rolled her eyes and elbowed him in the side before turning to her friend. “We’ll have a real game against them, won’t we? Germaine? Won’t we?”

But Germaine was only watching Ravenclaw’s victory lap, looking vaguely queasy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well... a lot has changed since the last time i updated this, even though it's only been a month. i really do hope reading this fic helps some of you deal with the uncertainty around the world right now — writing it certainly helps me. your supportive comments these last couple of weeks have really made me get out of my funk and finish writing this chapter — though it's kind of on the short side, there's some important conversations, and i hope you enjoy!!! 
> 
> i'm currently plotted till after christmas, so now that the creative juices are flowing i will try to write faster. the next chapter is called "tempers, tidings, tip-offs" (love me some alliteration!) and it's got much more plot than this one so stay tuned! be safe and stay healthy <33
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	10. Tempers, Tidings, Tip-Offs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Lily and James agree to actually play nice with one another. Lily decides forgiving Snape is a bad idea after all. Germaine and Emmeline are just two rival Quidditch players hanging out. The Aurors sent to protect Hogwarts have decided to start a Duelling Club in response to students (read: creepy future Death Eater types) practising combative magic past curfew.
> 
> NOW: Lily asks Snape a question. It's time for Slughorn's Christmas party!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment for your social-interaction-starved fic writer! I'm hitting publish on this and heading out for a walk so excuse any little errors — I will do another edit soon.

_i. Double Trouble_

Double Potions, James thought, had to be an instrument of torture. They’d learned about the Geneva Convention in Muggle Studies — certainly if Muggles knew about magic, and Hogwarts, and the concept of Slughorn’s Potions class, they would have thought to include double Potions in their agreements.

That was not to say that James was bad at Potions; quite the contrary. For someone so blasé about schoolwork in general, he did well enough in Slughorn’s subject — better than he had in, say, History of Magic, a class that he and Sirius had spent five years in learning more about how to tick off Binns than actual history. 

But he did not have the patience and diligence required to make a great potioneer. James knew this because he recognised those qualities in his own father, though Fleamont’s days of regular potion-brewing were long gone. Part of this was the habitual restlessness of any sixteen-year-old wizard who cared more about Quidditch than the stirring involved in a Hiccoughing Potion. 

This upset no one more than Horace Slughorn himself, whose obvious adoration of Snape and Lily seemed to only _slightly_ outweigh his distaste for the Marauders’ antics. James continued to receive invitations to the annual Slug Club Christmas party, and continued to dutifully not attend, though Slughorn always seemed worried that James would one year show his face at the event. James liked to keep up this pretense. Double Potions was so long and dreary that by the end one could not be picky with where and how one found entertainment.

One mercy Slughorn did grant them, however, was a mid-class break. “Stretch your legs, go on,” he’d boom in the manner of a genteel overlord allowing his serfs to take a sip of water on a hot summer’s day — or so thought James, the gloom of the dungeon having pushed him to melodrama.

When Slughorn did give this command, James sprang up at once, making for the door with Sirius hot on his heels. Talk turned, as it had of late, to their Christmas prank. The mechanics of the prank were more complicated than they ordinarily would have been. James and Sirius were both going home to the Potters’ for Christmas, and Peter was going to his parents', so all the preparations had to be even more careful than usual. There could be no last-minute screw-ups, or Remus would need to spend _his_ holiday fixing them all on his own before Filch could trace the prank back to the four of them. 

“We’ve still got to figure out what kind of cups we’re using,” James said. “We can’t use glass. They’ll break and that’s too dangerous.”

Sirius, who seemed even more fidgety than double Potions warranted, rolled his eyes. “All right, Remus John Lupin. We won’t use glass. Transfiguring plastic will be a bitch, but we can do it.”

James frowned. “That’ll be a lot of plastic.” It was not a complaint, but merely a comment. He was already considering the space and time required for this sort of spellwork, excited at the challenge.

But for the first time in a long time, his friend misunderstood him. “Yeah, well, it’s an involved prank,” Sirius snapped. 

James looked at him, taken aback. Surprise flickered briefly across Sirius’s face, before being replaced by a familiar defensiveness. As they rounded a corner, James was considering how to talk him down — probing for what had Sirius in a bad mood was not a good idea, especially given they were due back in the Potions classroom in about two minutes.

He was spared having to speak, however, when they came face to face with two other wizards. So instantaneous was James’s reaction to Mulciber and Rosier that he had his wand out before he’d even realised it; beside him, Sirius had done the same, his own temper forgotten. Mulciber scowled, his hand in his pocket. But Rosier hadn’t so much as twitched.

“Relax,” he said, his eyes flicking heavenward. “I have no desire to _duel_ either of you in the corridor.” Taking the hint, Mulciber gave up on retrieving his wand, crossing his arms over his chest.

“No, your duelling’s only at nighttime, in empty classrooms. Isn’t it?” Sirius said sourly. Neither of the Gryffindors had put away their own wands.

Rosier’s expression was perfectly bored. “I do nothing of the sort.”

“You haven’t been _caught_ ,” James corrected.

Rosier shrugged, as if to say, _what’s the difference?_

“Wands away,” a familiar voice called; James closed his eyes just briefly before turning to face Lily. His gaze slid off her, landing instead on the figure by her side: a characteristically disheveled Severus Snape. James fought to keep the distaste from his face.

“What’re you doing with _her?”_ said Mulciber, apparently caught by the same thing as James. He and Rosier looked less at ease, somehow, than before. Mulciber’s scowl had turned even nastier; Rosier had gone cold as stone. James had lowered his wand at the sound of Lily’s voice, but he gripped it tight nevertheless. 

Snape looked more dour than ever at this question. For her part, Lily appeared unruffled.

“Wands away,” she repeated, looking pointedly at James and Sirius. “And get back to class, or I’ll take points.”

Sirius and James exchanged glances, stowing their wands away and starting back in the direction they’d come. Lily joined them. For a long minute all three walked in total silence; James glanced surreptitiously from Sirius to Lily, trying to read their expressions. Finally he looked at the latter, his mouth moving before his brain had time to catch up. If it had been Remus or Peter with them, he wouldn’t have had to speak first — but Sirius would not be making any friendly overtures, certainly not in _this_ mood.

“Snape and you, you’re chummy again?” he said.

Lily blew out a long breath, looking impossibly weary. James was not one to overthink his actions, but he regretted saying anything at all in that moment.

“Just drop it, James,” she ground out. She began to walk faster, as if to try and escape his questions. James felt a helpless sort of frustration, like he’d stuck out a hand to someone trapped in quicksand only to have his assistance refused. 

“Fine,” he said, and they all fell silent again. James was almost relieved to see the doorway to the Potions classroom.

* * *

_ii. Devil’s Advocate_

In September of 1971, Lily Evans had fervently hoped she and Severus would be partners in their Potions class. All facets of magic excited her, of course, but Potions held a special sort of interest — unlike Charms and Transfiguration and Defence Against the Dark Arts, Potions seemed more mundane.

It was like following a recipe, Lily thought. Other witches or wizards might have found this a drawback, but not she. It was all the more fascinating that a few strange ingredients and some wand-waving were all that separated useless sludge from Forgetfulness Potion. 

Gryffindors had Potions with the Slytherins, and so Lily’s ideal partnership was certainly a possibility — but to her great dismay, Professor Slughorn consistently paired her with that James Potter. The distinction between herself and those who had been raised with magic was quickly made apparent: Slughorn seemed to have an eye on several students, because of their mothers or great-uncles or last names, and Lily found herself working twice as hard for his attention. 

It succeeded, of course, because by Christmastime Slughorn liked her a good deal more than Potter, who seemed hell-bent on causing explosions in class. It took until their second year for Slughorn to give up on trying to separate Potter and his friends, and Lily had begun her long tenure as Severus’s Potions partner, whenever Slughorn called for them to work in pairs. The professor was occasionally struck by fancies and split them up, but he seemed unwilling to punish his more talented students — at worst Lily found herself with Mary or Remus. 

At the beginning of their sixth year, she’d worried, briefly, about Slughorn trying to stick the two of them together as he always did. But their N.E.W.T.-level class had shrunk, of course, and Slughorn had genially told them all to sit wherever they pleased on the first day. He’d merely blinked in surprise when Lily had hurried to Mary’s side; Severus slunk by Avery, glowering. 

Today, however, was one of Slughorn’s little competitions. They’d been charged with brewing a minor love potion, an invention of Laverne de Montmorency’s — “Nothing too strong, of course,” Slughorn had told them, beaming. “Philiatonic inspires a friendly devotion. It’s nowhere near as powerful as Amortentia, but it’s quite finicky, like all love potions. You will need to be _very_ attentive. Let me scramble up your pairs, too—” His gaze had fallen on Lily first, and she’d known, with a sinking feeling, that he would assign her to partner with Severus.

It was quiet, hard work, though, and Lily was grateful for that much. They were both more focused on the potion than one another. Certainly she felt awkward around him, but her conversation with James had nudged her from a resentful anger to something softer — something more like resignation.

It was true that she would have counselled Mary against ever taking back a friend who’d called her a slur like that. And whatever Severus said about it having been in the heat of the moment… Well, a word like that didn’t occur to you in anger if it wasn’t in your head otherwise. No, she could not forgive him, but she felt impossibly sorry for him still — sorry because they were firmly on diverging paths, and she hadn’t noticed until it was too late. 

As if he’d read her train of thought, Severus looked up at her and said, quietly, “You’re never going to forgive me, are you?”

Lily started, guilty despite herself. Instead of answering him, she focused on her stirring. “Do you know anything about the midnight duelling that Avery and Mulciber and the others got in trouble for?” she said, her tone measured and flat. 

The more legal sort of duelling was on her mind — Duelling Club signups had gone up that weekend, and the prefects had been told the club would begin in earnest after the Christmas holidays. But perhaps James’s doggedness had infected her too. Loath as she was to admit it, Severus _did_ probably know a thing or two about what his friends had been up to.

Abruptly, Severus’s expression became closed-off. “Am I being bribed?” he said coldly. “Information for your forgiveness?”

“Maybe,” Lily replied. What else could his defensiveness be but a sign that he _did_ know?

He only scoffed, falling silent again. That suited her fine. Pressing her lips together, she turned back to her cauldron. At the halfway mark, Slughorn allowed them the usual five-minute break, but as their classmates began to filter out of class, the Potions professor cleared his throat and asked Lily and Severus to wait a moment.

“Excellent work, as usual,” Slughorn said, peering into their cauldron. “Just — phenomenal, as always.”

Lily smothered a smile and murmured her thanks. In any other life, she thought — in _nine_ lives out of ten — she wouldn’t have been able to stand old Slughorn, but in this life she had a fondness for him not unrelated to how much he complimented her. She was allowed a bit of vanity, wasn’t she? By her side, Severus shifted, uncomfortable with praise as always. 

“I hope I’ll see you both at my little Christmas get-together? Plenty of fascinating people I’d love for you to meet.” Slughorn beamed at both of them. 

Lily opened her mouth to make an excuse; her friends were rarely, if at all, invited to Slughorn’s _little get-togethers_ , and she didn’t think she’d be in the mood for his hobnobbing pals on her own. 

But the professor continued on. “I know you’ll never tell me what your plans are for after Hogwarts, Lily—” a genial headshake, and a chuckle “—but the Aurors will be there in a properly social capacity — Ambrosius Flume too, if you care for some entertaining potion-making, Lavinia Clearwater, if you’d like to speak to the _Prophet_ ’s editor-in-chief, Madam Zainab Shafiq of the Wizengamot—”

This piqued her interest. Lily thought of the protest, and the awful news in the _Prophet_ each day, and the possibility of speaking to people who could make a difference. Her expression must have been easy to read, because Slughorn straightened and looked quite pleased.

“I insist, Miss Evans, I insist,” he boomed. 

Lily smiled and nodded. “I’ll be there, Professor. Thank you for the invitation.”

“And you, Severus?” Slughorn turned to face him, and Lily found herself following suit. Severus did not seem particularly eager, but the Potions professor had a name to sweeten the deal, it appeared, just as he had with Lily. “Oh, a particularly talented former student of mine will be in attendance. Marius Rosier, just returned from a trip to Bulgaria, and I really must ask him what he’s doing these days—”

If the name rang vaguely familiar to Lily, it had a much more powerful effect on Severus, whose eyebrows rose before he could smooth his expression back to blankness. She frowned to herself. Marius had to be some relation to Alec, the seventh-year Ravenclaw, but she could not for the life of her imagine why this would matter at all to Severus. 

She’d always thought of his other friends — Mulciber, and Avery, and Greengrass, and the like — as friends of convenience, really. People that Severus only interacted with because of their house, people who were only placeholders for when he wasn’t with Lily herself.

But, no, that couldn’t have been true, because Alec Rosier wasn’t a Slytherin. And one wasn’t familiar with the older brother of a casual acquaintance. Something in her sank like a stone, a belated realisation that was almost worse than having to endure James’s horrible logic when it came to forgiving Severus. 

Slughorn was still speaking. “Are you at all in touch with the older lot of them? Wilkes, I mean, and Evan Rosier too. Do promise me, Severus,” he said, chortling, “that when you leave the castle behind you will not forget your old Potions master.”

The conversation was rather one-sided, though Severus seemed to be growing more and more tense with every name Slughorn mentioned. Lily was itching with curiosity, the instinct to ask questions warring with her resolve to just leave her former friend alone.

Slughorn was clearly finished speaking with _her_ , and so she had no cause to linger. Even now the other Gryffindors were probably wondering where she was, and time was ticking down on their precious break. But she hovered awkwardly, knowing that even if Severus didn’t tell her anything — likely — Slughorn might drop some interesting bit of information.

But Severus, who was a tad flushed, seemed to sense Lily’s intent. He glanced at her, then swallowed. “I’ll be there,” he said, effectively cutting off Slughorn’s diatribe. 

“Excellent! Oh, I’ve kept you — go on, take what’s left of your break.” Slughorn waved them off, and Lily made quickly for the door, sensing a sour comment on the way from Severus.

True to form, they’d only just made it out to the corridor when he said, “Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, Lily.”

She whirled round to face him. “I won’t,” she said hotly. “You needn’t worry, because my nose won’t be anywhere near your business — ever.” With this said, she marched away, pumping her legs faster at the sound of his footsteps behind her.

“Wait! Stay away from the seventh-floor corridor.”

Lily halted again, her mind whirling. What on earth was in the seventh-floor corridor? It was empty, save for the odd tapestry and— the secret room that Dex had taken her to. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Just stay away,” Severus said, the desperation audible in his voice. “You’re always — asking questions, but you could really get _hurt_.”

“There’s nothing there,” said Lily, her tone perfectly cool now.

So much for his pretending that he had nothing to do with the other students’ duelling — because, she was certain, what else would they have been using the secret space for? What else could possibly pose a risk to her? It was awfully incongruous, the thought of that warm little nook inhabited by Mulciber and his nasty grin. She felt as though a perfect part of the castle had been taken from her. 

“No, there isn’t,” said Severus, the words tumbling out of him in a rush. “But — Rosier knows something about— look, it doesn’t matter. Can you just stay away?”

Lily didn’t plan on investigating it herself. She was not stupid, nor reckless — she wasn’t James or Sirius. But he did not need to know that.

“I’ll mind my own business when you tell McGonagall what they’re up to.”

He looked stricken for an instant, then angry. Lily judged that the conversation was well over, and continued down the corridor. It was terribly chilly in the dungeons, but she knew Germaine would have begged for fresh air, and her friends would probably be in one of the courtyards. To her dismay, though, the first people she ran into were not her mates, but James and Sirius and Rosier and Mulciber, engaged in some sort of standoff.

 _Just my luck_ , she thought darkly; she could feel Severus just a few paces behind her. 

“Wands away,” said Lily. They would have to be back in the dungeons soon enough — there was no time to duel, on top of all the hundreds of other reasons why it was a ridiculous idea. Mulciber was awful, yes, but she was more wary of Rosier, whose iciness seemed to mask something worse.

She’d hoped they would listen at her first command, but that was wishful thinking. Rosier looked bored; the other three were gawping at her and Severus as though the sight of the two of them together was as rare as a blue moon. Silly, considering they’d spent five years as friends — but Lily supposed that James had good cause to be surprised. She wondered, uneasy, what Severus had told _his_ crowd about her. She didn’t much care what they thought of her, but she’d rather not have been a subject of their conversation at all.

“What’re you doing with _her?”_ Mulciber said to Severus, scowling at Lily. 

She crossed her arms over her chest, not flinching from his gaze. Severus seemed disinclined to answer this question — a good thing, she was beginning to realise. 

“Wands away,” she said again. If anyone listened, it’d be her housemates; Lily shot James and Sirius a look. “And get back to class, or I’ll take points.”

To her relief, this seemed to do the trick. When James and Sirius had put away their wands, Lily turned on her heel and started back for the Potions classroom, not waiting to see who would follow her. She’d done her job and stopped a fight, but she felt suddenly _tired_. She’d have to go right back to working on the Philiatonic with Severus, stewing in her frustration. Why was she incapable of a clean break? Or, no, this wasn’t _her_ fault. It was him, and the company he kept, and it was _not her fault_ —

James’s voice broke through this frenzied spiral into anger. “Snape and you, you’re chummy again?” 

Lily squeezed her eyes shut briefly, sighing. All at once she was exhausted once more. It was a good thing she’d agreed to go to Slughorn’s party, she thought. She needed _some_ thing to take all this nonsense off her mind.

“Just drop it, James,” she said aloud, not meeting his gaze.

It was silly to feel defensive, or even embarrassed — she hadn’t been getting _chummy_ with Severus at all. But she was sick of being lectured, of being told what to do, even when she knew it was well-intentioned. She was a girl used to trusting her own judgment, and it stung to have her faults pointed out so much and so often. That was her pride speaking, she knew, but the knowledge did not make any of this easier. 

With a twist in her gut, she realised she wanted to go _home_. Christmas was just around the corner, and she would be back with her mother and her sister soon, but — _God, I haven’t been homesick at Hogwarts in ages_ , Lily thought, stunned. But a break was very much in order, and she squared her shoulders and lengthened her stride, as James muttered a vague response behind her. 

* * *

_iii. Behind Enemy Lines_

Germaine set her broom down as she caught her breath, scraping her sweat-dampened hair out of her face. It was only just long enough to tie back — a relief, she thought, for she hated the way it hung after a good flying session, somehow wind-whipped and lank at once. She was not _vain_ , really, but she didn’t want to look stupid. This was a desire that was increasingly at the forefront of her mind, often catching her by surprise. It was a side effect of being around Emmeline, probably. The Ravenclaw girl was, if not perfectly put together, the sort of person who moved around with an air of nonchalance that Germaine envied. 

She squinted at Emmeline now as the other witch touched down onto the grass as well. Emmeline crumpled to the ground, a motion she somehow made look graceful, and pulled a cigarette from a pocket, lighting it. Germaine watched, intrigued. She was not a big smoker herself, and had no particular opinion on the habit, but she hadn’t taken Emmeline for one. 

“I thought the point of being a Prefect was enforcing the rules _and_ following them,” Germaine said, moving closer to her.

Emmeline looked up at her. “It’s only a little smoke break.” She exhaled a cloud of smoke.

Germaine’s eyes grew huge and round. “ _That’s_ not a cigarette.” It was too earthy a smell, and though she wasn’t really certain what weed smelled like she was fairly certain that this was the thing. Emmeline, of all people! Germaine was nearly giddy with surprise.

Emmeline laughed at her expression. “Don’t look so shocked.” She held the joint out for Germaine, who took it with the barest beat of hesitation.

“I just didn’t think you’d be the type.” 

“What’s the type?”

Many words came to mind, none of which, Germaine thought, would be particularly flattering to Emmeline. She only shrugged. “I can’t think where you’d get it from.” She peered at the slim joint in her fingers, at its little burning-red end.

Emmeline laughed again. Germaine didn’t think she’d seen her this delighted ever, and it didn’t seem to be the drugs. “I have my source, but I won’t rat them out.”

“I suppose not.” Germaine didn’t have anything else to say, so she put the joint to her lips and inhaled. It had been a while since she’d smoked anything, and she’d overestimated her capacity; she tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle her coughing as she handed it back.

“First time?” Emmeline said, arching one dark brow. 

“No,” wheezed Germaine. To her immense relief Emmeline only smiled and did not press her. While Emmeline was taking a drag of her own, Germaine, having recovered from her coughing fit, said, “Er, I don’t think I got to tell you, but you were really good. In the last Quidditch match, I mean.”

Emmeline looked at her curiously. “Oh, were you watching?”

Of course she was watching! She watched every Quidditch match, and this was perfectly ordinary behaviour! Germaine coughed weakly. “Yeah, I was. I mean, not that I could watch _much_ , since it ended so quickly.” Emmeline grew pensive. Germaine added, “Anyway, it was cool.”

“I definitely have told you this, but _your_ stunt was incredibly stupid.”

Germaine laughed. “Why, thank you.”

“Gryffindors and their bad decisions,” said Emmeline, rolling her eyes. Her smile hadn’t faded.

“Technically speaking, this—” Germaine pointed at the joint, and then at herself “—is probably a bad decision, so you should be happy I’m here.”

Emmeline met her gaze, still looking thoughtful. “Maybe I’d prefer to be alone.” She said this without any real sting or heat, as if it had just occurred to her, or as if she were discussing the weather. Her grey eyes glinted in the pale December light. 

Germaine did not look away. “No, I don’t think that’s true.”

Emmeline smiled a little, picking at the grass. Neither of them spoke; Germaine watched the clouds move slowly overhead, and the winter sun inch its way through the sky. At last the Ravenclaw stubbed out her joint — by then much shortened — and stood up, brushing down her uniform and picking up her broom. With a wave, she was gone, leaving Germaine to her thoughts. 

What Germaine _was_ thinking, most concretely through the happy haze of an afternoon well spent, was that she needed to get rid of the smell before heading to Care of Magical Creatures. She wasn’t sure how strongly she smelled of weed, but something surely lingered—

She checked her watch. Yes, she would need to get up and go any moment now, but she wanted to stay just a little longer, basking in the privacy before she returned to real life and class and everyone else she knew. 

Real life, however, found her first. Germaine spotted James Potter’s familiar, bespectacled figure; he was headed her way, his gait more urgent than usual. She wasn’t late for class yet, so what on earth could this be about? She opened her mouth to call out a greeting, but snapped it shut at his thunderous expression.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” said James, his voice cold with fury. “You’ve been flying with Vance. Merlin, Germaine, do you want Ravenclaw to know all our secrets?”

Germaine blinked at him, utterly in shock. “Logically, James, if she knows _our_ secrets I’ll know hers.”

She rose shakily to her feet, feeling very small on the ground next to his height. Of course, she was still a good foot shorter than him, but she felt better for being able to look him in the eye. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be because of _Quidditch_ , surely. James was a fair captain, at the end of it all.

But he was scowling. “Can you take this a little seriously? Ravenclaw is really good and your precious Vance is part of why, and if we want a shot at the cup this year—”

His tone had her properly irked. _Your precious Vance_. Germaine glared at him. “Not everything is about the stupid Quidditch Cup!”

“It is to _her_ ,” James shot back. “For all you know she’s hanging around you so you let something slip.”

Germaine scoffed, though the idea felt as cold and awful as ice. “You’re a prick, Potter. It’s a game, not fucking espionage.”

James did not respond to this, peering at her closely and sniffing the air. “Are you high?”

“What are you going to do? Write me a detention? Sit me for the next match?” She shook her head, incredulous.

“I just might.”

“Whatever Lily said to you that’s put you in such a foul mood—” Germaine started.

“Don’t fucking start,” said James, walking away before she could go on.

Germaine rocked back on her heels, blowing out a frustrated breath. The perfect illusion of her afternoon had been shattered. She grabbed her broom and her bag, stomping to class. But she wasn’t one to hold a grudge; as she walked, she wished she had not snapped at him, not when he’d so clearly been thinking about something else.

But oh, it was too late for regrets now that the argument was done. With her anger fading, Germaine was left with something worse — the sting of blows well placed, only she did not want to think about what James had said and why it bothered her as much as it did.

* * *

_iv. A Slug By Any Other Name_

“Gosh, thank you for bringing me,” Dorcas was saying, smoothing down the front of her deep purple dress robes. 

Lily laughed, knocking her shoulder into her friend’s. “Of course, Doe. Although, I’m not entirely sure what you hope to achieve.” They were on the way to Slughorn’s office, the improbable site of the party, though Lily suspected the professors engaged in some kind of spellwork to enlarge the space. “Do you think you can shout at Lavinia Clearwater over dinner?”

Dorcas shrugged expressively. “I’m not saying that was my plan...but I’m not _not_ saying that. I can hobnob with the Aurors anytime, but I can’t always talk to _Prophet_ editors about their decisions, can I? It’s a pity Slughorn hasn’t invited someone from the WWN.”

“That we know of,” Lily pointed out, grinning.

Dorcas brightened. “You’re so very right.”

The girls breezed into the lavishly decorated office, which was already crowded with well-dressed students and guests alike. A string quartet played in a corner, the melody a tinkling undertone to the murmur of conversation. Lily caught herself scanning the faces around her; she frowned to herself. There was no one to look for, after all.

Doe squeezed her arm. “I’m going to do a sweep of the room. Old Sluggy will point me to Clearwater, won’t he?”

“Oh — I’m sure he will,” said Lily, feeling quite dazed. She didn’t know where to begin, but she didn’t want to aimlessly tag along with Dorcas. Slughorn’s wry little comment from Potions class swam through her mind. What _did_ she want to do after Hogwarts? Here was a room full of people who had exciting answers to her uncertainty. 

Slughorn himself came to her rescue, swooping down on her like an avuncular bat and steering her towards two wizards. One was stooped and pale, looking like he was doing as well as one of the Hogwarts ghosts, health-wise; the other was stout and broad-shouldered, peering down at Lily curiously from under his bushy eyebrows.

“Gentlemen,” Slughorn pronounced, “one of my brightest students, Lily Evans.” 

Lily rather felt as though she ought to curtsey at this introduction; she smiled and nodded at both of the adults. The younger man, Fergus MacDougal, was a potioneer, it turned out. “A student of Hesper Starkey, you know,” Slughorn said to Lily, who had just nodded more forcefully at this while she scrambled to remember who, exactly, Hesper Starkey was. The older man, Cadmus Bulstrode, had previously held some Ministry position. He seemed unwilling to say what, but Lily gleaned from his pompous demeanour that he was important, somehow — or he thought he was.

With a ferocity rivalled only by Lily’s O.W.L. examiners, Bulstrode and MacDougal began to quiz her on her coursework, apparently interested in the most minute details of N.E.W.T.-level Potions. Lily fought to keep her panic from her face. She was beginning to think she would need to physically escape in order to end the conversation, when who but James should appear by her elbow, a little out of breath.

“Oh, hello, Professor Slughorn,” he said cheerfully.

The professor, clearly surprised that he’d come, blanched a little at the sight of him. “So good to see you, Mr. Potter,” Slughorn managed.

Bulstrode perked up at this. “Potter?” he said gruffly, tottering closer as if to seize and examine James.

James casually leaned backwards. Lily stifled a smile.

“Yes, how rude of me.” Slughorn seemed to regain his spirit with the simple task of introducing someone. “James Potter, Cadmus Bulstrode and Fergus MacDougal.”

The two wizards eyed James with the same frightening attention they’d given Lily earlier. She was glad to be spared their beady-eyed gazes; the faint alarm that had stolen over James only made this whole situation better.

“ _Fleamont_ Potter’s son?” said MacDougal, his brows rising ever higher up his craggy forehead.

“That’s me,” said James.

Bulstrode hummed, now squinting at James in a manner that even Lily thought was borderline rude. “You look nothing like Fleamont.”

James stiffened for the barest moment. “I take after my mother,” he said blandly. Lily wondered if there was some significance to this statement — she hadn’t seen Mr. and Mrs. Potter at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, not for years. 

But her confusion soon vanished, replaced by a tight sort of rage. She was certain the flush of it was clear on her face. Bulstrode gave James another appraising stare and said, “ _Hm_ , and where is your mother _from_? Not English, is she?” His tone was thick with meaning; though Slughorn did not seem to grasp it, MacDougal looked rather embarrassed. 

Lily realised she’d come to recognise the signs of anger in James. His jaw had tightened; his hazel eyes flashed. He was always the picture of ease, but he did not look at home in fury — stillness was like an ill-fitting suit on him. 

Before she knew what she was doing, she patted James on the arm and said to the older wizards, “I’m so sorry to steal him away from you, but I was promised an introduction to…” Words failed her; she gave him a meaningful look.

Thankfully, James caught on. “Madam Shafiq,” he supplied, giving Bulstrode and MacDougal a cold smile. “Nice to meet you both.”

Flashing them all a wide grin she hoped was not too strained, Lily backed away and led them deeper into the crowd.

“Madam Shafiq’s that way,” said James, redirecting them.

“Oh — you don’t actually have to introduce me,” Lily said. She realised she was still gripping his arm; she dropped her hand hurriedly.

James gave her a lopsided smile, a shadow of the real thing. It soon faded. “She’s Sara’s aunt, and she’s a treasure. I need to speak to someone I have an ounce of respect for after that.”

“I’m sorry,” said Lily, her brows furrowed. 

“ _You_ didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No, I’m sorry I didn’t tell him off! He was so old and horrible.” She shuddered.

James barked out a laugh, some of the tension fading from his shoulders. “Touching of you to defend my honour.”

She was relieved to see that his mood hadn’t been entirely spoiled. “Your mother’s, not yours.”

“Touché.” James shook his head. “It’s all right. If I got into arguments with everyone who said something like that to me, I’d be wasting my breath.”

“Still,” said Lily hotly. “Still!”

James laughed again, properly this time. “And to think I came over there trying to rescue _you_.”

“Did you?”

“Oh, yes,” James said. “You ought to have seen the look on your face. It was as though you actually regretted five and a half years of impressing Slughorn.”

Lily snorted. “I almost did.”

In the brief silence that followed, Lily said, "Look, I asked Severus about Mulciber and Avery and Greengrass the other day."

James's brows rose. "Oh. What did he say?"

"Not much." She didn't know what propelled her to keep the seventh-floor corridor detail to herself — an instinct that James would probably go investigate and get himself in trouble again. She sighed, adding, "You _were_ right. He knows something, but he's not going to tell me, I'm afraid."

"Oh," James said again. "Well — worth a try, I think."

Lily nodded, unsure why she'd brought it up at all. Perhaps the prickling homesickness she'd felt earlier had faded; perhaps it had taken her some time to process what Severus's words to her had really meant. Either way, she didn't want to leave for the hols before making sure she and James were on the same page. 

They found Madam Shafiq, a superbly stylish witch with the same long nose and thick, dark hair as Sara, engaged in conversation with Doe. The latter looked serious and professional; later, Dorcas told Lily that she’d had a friendly sort of argument with the Wizengamot member about politics.

Disagreements aside, Madam Shafiq seemed like much better company than the wizards Lily and James had left behind. They had a perfectly polite conversation, during which Sara’s aunt told Lily and Doe both that they ought to look into Ministry summer programs, before Madam Shafiq spotted someone in the crowd she simply _had_ to speak to.

“A delight, girls, a delight,” she said, giving them broad smiles. She patted James on the shoulder, saying, “Give Mum and Dad my love,” and then she was gone with a swirl of her embroidered robes.

“I see why Sara’s the way she is,” said Dorcas with a laugh, impressed despite herself. “Can’t chat, you two, Clearwater’s _finally_ on her own—” And she darted off in pursuit of the _Daily Prophet_ editor, leaving Lily and James alone with each other once more.

“You know an awful lot of people here,” said Lily.

James shrugged, running a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t say _I_ know them. Mum and Dad do, some of them. Or they know of Mum and Dad.”

Lily marvelled at this. “Magical society is a lot smaller than I thought, then.”

James went a little red. “Well, my grandfather was in the Wizengamot. Not that anyone alive here would’ve known my granddad—”

“But you’ve never been to Slughorn’s parties before.”

“Remus and Peter are never invited. In fact, Sirius wasn’t invited this year either.”

Lily blinked. “You don’t think it’s because—”

“He was disowned?” finished James. “Well, he’s no more or less talented at Potions than he was last year, so draw your own conclusions.”

“God,” was all Lily could say. The glitter and pomp of the evening seemed a little less dazzling. Frowning, she looked back at James. “So you’re invited because of your grandfather?”

“No, I’m invited because of my natural charm and incredible good looks.”

Lily gave him a look.

“Dad’s a potioneer,” said James at last. “He didn’t pass on the skill, though.”

“I know,” said Lily. “I’ve only been in Potions with you for five and a half years.”

“ _Hey_ ,” James said, snagging a goblet from a tray floating past. “Mead?” He held it out to her.

“Oh — thank you.” Lily sipped at the goblet. “Have we read about your dad in any of our textbooks?” She already knew the answer was _no_ ; she would have remembered, she was quite certain.

“No-oo-oo.” James drew out the one word to about six syllables. 

Lily could not for the life of her guess why he was suddenly so sheepish. “Well, surely he’s brewed something I’ve heard of, since everyone here seems to know him by name.” She couldn’t have said where this curiosity was coming from, but she could not drop the issue now.

James coughed, and made a sound that sounded like _speakeasy_.

“What?”

“Sleekeazy’s. The, er, hair potion.”

Lily’s eyes widened. “You’re not serious! But — Mary and Sara use it.” The bottles were a familiar sight to Lily, though she’d never screwed up the courage to use hair potion herself.

James laughed, his discomfort vanishing in an instant. “Yeah, the _point_ is that people use it, Evans.”

“But—” She fell silent, staring at him. Surely he was _rich_ , then, if his father had invented a popular hair potion.

Part of being Muggleborn was that Lily had little scope or understanding of socioeconomic status in the wizarding world — that is, she was aware, as only a girl who had grown up decidedly lower middle class could be, that several of her fellow students were quite wealthy, but had never _really_ faced this fact. She didn’t know what sort of houses they lived in, after all, and she didn’t know what sort of clothes they wore outside of Hogsmeade visits. Fancy brooms and pampered airs did not necessarily reveal the extent of money people had, James included.

“You’re giving me a very Bulstrode look,” said James, grinning.

“Oh, stop it.” Lily could feel herself flushing. “I’m just surprised, is all. How have I never known?”

James rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not as if I’ve kept it a big secret.”

“No, but it’s not as if you _talk_ about it either.”

“There’s so many interesting things about me. My dad’s potion is far enough down the list that it doesn’t come up,” he said lightly.

Lily gave him a knowing look, though she stayed silent. It seemed there were surprising limits to his arrogance. If she’d heard about his father last year, or the year before, it would have been another piece in his frustrating, boastful image. But as it was, perspective changed everything, and she was in a place to realise the fact that James hadn’t really discussed his money — not even when he’d been a staggeringly obnoxious eleven-year-old — did say something about him. He was not so bad, Lily thought.

“As pleasant as this has been,” James said, “I’ve got to duck out soon.”

Lily was startled, both by the suddenness of this proclamation and by her own disappointment. She’d been enjoying his company.

“So early?” she said. “Or have you been here long?”

He grew rather shifty. “Well, my mates are all waiting…” Lily frowned, puzzled. James sighed. “All right, I’ll let you in on it. Come on, come on.” He seized her arm and began pulling her towards the door. 

“Hold on, let me in on _what_?”

But Lily could guess. He’d said earlier that he did not like to attend Slughorn’s get-togethers because his friends were not invited — and this year wasn’t an exception to that. So something must have brought James here, and she had a sinking feeling that she and all the party guests were about to discover what it was.

James did not answer her question until they were safely outside Slughorn’s office. 

“No one’s going to be hurt,” he said quickly. “It’s even more harmless than the food prank.”

“The food prank wasn’t without its victims,” Lily pointed out.

He made a face. “A victimless prank is _boring_.”

“James—”

“Are you actually going to stop me, or just try and talk me out of it?”

Lily considered this. She didn’t particularly want to do either, if she were being honest with herself. “Oh, just get on with it,” she said finally.

He gave her a self-satisfied smirk that had her on the verge of changing her mind. But then James flicked his wand, and the party lights went out. The music screeched to an abrupt halt, shouts of alarm filling the office.

But the darkness didn’t even last long enough for the guests to light their own wands. The lights blinked on once more. Conversation did not resume, however; there were more confused voices, and Slughorn could be heard above it all, saying, “What in heaven’s name—”

Lily peered around the doorframe. The floor was covered in fine crystal goblets, lined up neatly around each person in the room. The sight was absurd: every inch of floor space not already occupied by someone’s feet had a goblet in it, and each goblet was full to the brim. They were stubbornly resisting Slughorn’s vanishing spells at present.

“Is that glass?” said Lily, astonished.

“’Course not. Plastic,” said James cheerfully. “Glass is too dangerous. They won’t know until they try stepping on it, though.”

But the genteel company did not seem the sort to smash their way through the hundreds of goblets; everyone was frozen in place, making for a ridiculous tableau. Most of the guests looked just as shocked as the Potions professor, but several were taking this with good humour. Madam Shafiq had bent down to examine the goblets, smiling. The students had quickly realised who were to blame for the mishap. Amelia Bones had gone white with fury; next to her, Doe was barely holding in laughter. 

“What’s in the goblets?” Lily said, smothering a smile of her own.

“Eggnog, obviously. Here, d’you think Slughorn will tell them it’s performance art?” James looked as though this was his dearest wish in all the world. 

“Surely you’re not going to stick around to find out. The moment they get out of there Slughorn will come looking for you.”

“Not a chance. He’ll have to reassure all his esteemed guests first.” James straightened. “Well, I have to report this success to the others. You headed back to Gryffindor Tower?”

Lily shook her head. “I should wait for Doe.”

“It won’t be a short wait,” James warned.

“I’ll be fine.” Lily smiled at him. “Go enjoy your success.”

James looked as though he was about to say something else, but he finally nodded and backed away. “Night, Evans.”

“Goodnight, James.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i keep saying i'll update more frequently since we're in the end times... but i hope this super long chapter makes up for my spottiness! and that the shippiness appeases you all too. i swear this chapter wasn't supposed to have as much as it did, so the next one's going to be on the shorter side, hah. but it's going to have more of james's pov! not to mention all the secondary characters i neglected... remus peter mary i haven't forgotten you all!!! anyway, take care everyone <33 and as always kudos and comments are so very appreciated.
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	11. Like the Ones I Used to Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Sirius's mother blasts him off the family tree; James insists that the Potters will take his best friend in. Marcel Thorpe has a shady bigoted radio show, and happens to be the father of the cool new DADA professor. Doe's Ancient Runes partner, Michael Meadowes, has a crappy ex-girlfriend from home. James is unable to write to his summer fling, Mélanie. Evan Wronecki, a seventh-year, throws a holiday party every year; last year, Mary went alone and kissed Doc Dearborn. 
> 
> NOW: Lily and Mary discuss current events on the phone. Doe and Michael strike up a lively correspondence. Euphemia Potter hosts a Christmas party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering the Times We Live In, I wanted to drop a quick CONTENT WARNING. Things are getting serious in the wizarding world! I know many of you read this to escape from the awful real-life news, so just to let you know in advance, this chapter does mention the deaths of minor, unnamed characters.
> 
> Carry on, and leave me a kudo or a COMMENT or a kudo! Hint hint with the capitalisation. I do think this is the best chapter I've written so far, so I hope you enjoy.

_i. Bad News_

“You had the telephone all morning yesterday,” Petunia said, her eyes narrowed to slits. “You shouldn’t be allowed to rack up the bill!”

Lily held back a sigh. This was becoming a near-daily argument in the Evans household, it seemed. The girls and Doris Evans would wake up and eat breakfast, Lily would cast the most casual of glances at the telephone, and Petunia would be off to the races. 

“Mary and I like to talk about the news,” she said, fighting to keep an even tone. She held up the _Daily Prophet_ , waving it in Petunia’s face. Her sister made a sound of annoyance and tried to bat it away. “As it happens, there’s new news every day. And there’s _important_ news today, so I’d like to speak to her!”

Petunia gave a prim shake of her head. Her long blonde tresses hung unbound around her face: she needed to let them breathe, apparently, first thing in the morning. “Yvonne and I need to discuss—”

“You and Yvonne can dissect your date with Vernon after I talk to Mary.”

Doris set down her cup of tea with a quiet but pointed _clink_. “Really, girls. There’s so many waking hours — can’t one of you have nightly phone calls with your friends?”

Lily glanced at her mother, cowed. “Mum, I’m only here half the year,” she began.

Petunia scoffed, throwing her hands up in the air. “Oh, not this again. As if you’re being sent to — to reform school!” She stormed away; Lily heard the creaky bathroom door slam shut, and the shower hissed to life.

Doris sighed. “There goes our hot water, I expect.”

“I’m sorry,” said Lily, knowing from the look on her mother’s face that this was what was expected of her. “I really am, I shouldn’t have let my temper—”

Her mother’s expression softened. “No, you shouldn’t have. But I’m not the one you should be apologising to.”

Lily groaned. “She’s in the shower anyway — I’ll speak to her once I’ve called Mary.” Before Doris could give her any other reproachful looks, she hurried to the sitting room and dialled her friend. 

Though her sister’s ability to get on her nerves was unparalleled, Lily was on a short fuse that morning for unrelated reasons. Her copy of the _Prophet_ had arrived on time, and she’d scanned the headlines as usual before poring over each page. This was her routine over the hols — reading every bit of the paper, and finally settling down to do the crossword, which would sometimes reshuffle itself if you dwelled too long on one clue.

That day she hadn’t got that far. She turned to the opinion page, sipping her own tea and humming absentmindedly to herself. There really was nothing like her mother’s tea: _just_ the right splash of milk, and _just_ the right amount of sugar. Lily had the teacup in midair when her gaze landed on the first column on the opinions page. _The erasure of pureblood heritage_ , read the headline, and beneath it, the author’s name: _Marcel Thorpe_. 

Lily swore and sloshed half her tea onto the _Prophet_.

“Language,” Doris called.

She muttered a halfhearted apology, trying to blot out the tea with her palm. A small headshot of Marcel Thorpe accompanied the column. His severe features and dark hair were remarkably like Professor Thorpe’s; there could be no doubt, thought Lily, that the two were related. The column was exactly the sort of drivel she’d expected from Thorpe, but it still made her blood boil — a reaction exacerbated by the words in small print beneath his byline.

Not _contributing writer_ , but _staff columnist_. Lily’s heart was somewhere in the back of her throat. Or perhaps that was her gag reflex kicking in. The very bottom of the column confirmed it: _Marcel Thorpe is the host of the popular radio show,_ The Thorpe Hour _. His column appears every other Tuesday._

“Popular radio show!” Lily had repeated, half horrified and half disgusted. Rolling up the paper, she’d gone right for the telephone — and Petunia had pounced.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Lily murmured into the receiver now, curling up in the saggy armchair by the phone and drumming her fingers on her knee. 

“Yes, hello?” said a polite, wavering voice at the other end.

“Oh, Andrew, hi. It’s Lily.”

A long silence. 

Lily suppressed an impatient sigh. “Mary’s friend. Could I speak to her, please?”

A cough. “Right. Sure. I’ll get her—” A muffled sound, then Andrew shouting, “Phone for you, Mare!”

This too was par for the course on holiday mornings. Lily had been phoning Mary quite regularly since their fifth year, but Mary’s little brother Andrew seemed determined not to remember who she was. Lily was convinced Andrew did not like her for some reason. Mary assured her that Andrew was like any other thirteen-year-old boy, and did not enjoy surprise interactions with girls.

Finally Mary appeared at the other end, sounding slightly breathless. “You read it too, then?”

Lily felt her shoulders slump. “Just now. I can’t believe —”

“I can,” said Mary tersely. “But I thought Doe said Lavinia Clearwater seemed…sensible!”

Indeed, Dorcas had returned from her Slug Club conversation with the _Daily Prophet_ editor-in-chief frustrated, but not entirely without hope. The woman had been elusive, but overall well-intentioned. (This was even after the dinner’s interruption by the Marauders; Doe said that Clearwater had taken the prank rather well, all things considered.)

“Maybe she’s good at putting on a front,” suggested Lily. “Or — she’s not in charge of opinion content, somehow? Gosh, I wish I knew more about how the _Prophet_ functions.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll have to hang onto your questions until we get back to school. I’m sure Sara knows someone who knows someone who works there.”

“I’m almost glad magical folk don’t have the telly. Or we’d need to deal with this on there too.”

They made identical sounds of frustration, then lapsed into silence. Now that the initial burst of annoyance had faded, Lily regretted diving right into the issue of the day. It had put something of a damper on the conversation. 

“Anyway,” she said, “how have your holidays been so far?”

“Oh, same as always. Visiting my grandparents, shopping with Mum…” Mary trailed off. “Yours?”

“Same as always,” Lily echoed. She looked around the familiar sitting room: the faded photographs on the mantel, her father’s face smiling out of them. Herself and Petunia as children, laughing in another one. The wobbly stack of faded paperbacks that the telephone rested on. One of Petunia’s magazines strewn carelessly across the coffee table. 

Yes, everything was as it should have been, and it ought to have lent Lily the exact sense of comfort that she had sought in the past month of term. But the nagging unease had only followed her from Hogwarts. Everything was still uncertain and strange, and leaving the wizarding world momentarily had not changed that. It made her want to shut herself up in her bedroom with a nice book and a mug of hot cocoa.

“Lily? You there?”

She was jerked back to reality by the sound of Mary’s voice. “Oh, yes, sorry. Daydreaming.”

“Look — how much have you told your mum about...well, magical politics?” 

There was an uncharacteristic uncertainty in the other witch’s voice that took her by surprise. Even Mary did not want to return to small talk, apparently. Lily wished she’d refilled her tea so she’d have something to hold onto while she spoke.

“Not much,” Lily admitted. “The bare minimum, really. I don’t want to—” She glanced up. Through the sitting room door she could see her mother at the dining table, still drinking her tea. Doris did not _look_ as though she were listening, but Lily didn’t want to take the chance. 

She lowered her voice, and continued, “I don’t want to worry her.”

“Not even what people say about Muggleborns?”

“Especially not that.”

Lily only offhandedly mentioned bits of magical news to her mother: she had told her about Harold Minchum’s election as Minister for Magic last year, for instance, and would occasionally read her funny things out of the _Prophet_. She didn’t think she had ever consciously made the decision to keep anti-Muggleborn sentiment from her family. She’d simply continued to do it on instinct, until it was far too late to casually bring up without years of omission also coming to light.

What could her parents have done about it, after all? They’d barely understood how the wizarding world worked — and Lily couldn’t blame them. It would be hard for anyone to fathom from the outside. No, to them Lily might as well have been their personal miracle, the only magical girl in the world. The bureaucracy and history of magical politics were too far beyond what they’d seen. 

The closest she’d come to it, in fact, had been last summer. Petunia had been quick to notice the change in her, and when Lily had explained she did not want to see Severus again, her sister had, miraculously, refrained from making any snide comments. 

_Did you two have a row?_ Petunia’d asked instead, her nose scrunching up. _Something like that_ , Lily had replied. _He called me — well, he said something really awful to me_. Just the thought of it had brought tears to her eyes again. Petunia had hurriedly changed the subject, but not before taking Lily’s hand in her own perfectly manicured ones, squeezing tight.

“Why do you ask?” Lily said into the telephone.

“I don’t know if I should. It’s — a rather large part of the life I’m going to be living, after I leave Hogwarts. The life I’m living now, too.”

With a start, Lily realised that if Mary’s parents did not know anything about prejudice in the magical world, they wouldn’t have known why Mulciber and Avery had hexed her in their fifth year. A lump rose in her throat. She remembered seeing Mary in the Hospital Wing afterwards, how small and defeated and _un_ -Mary-like she’d looked. How awful to think Mary had never explained the details of it to her parents. How cruel, how horrid of those _bastards_ to have put her in that position, Lily thought, momentarily carried away by her fury.

She’d been silent for too long. Mary said, “Hel- _lo_ , Lily?”

“Here, sorry,” Lily said quickly. “To be honest, I’ve never thought about it. Maybe after we’re done with Hogwarts…” She checked the door again. “We’re as safe as we can be at school, at least.”

Belatedly, Lily realised this must have sounded rich, considering Mary _had_ been attacked.

But her friend only hummed. “I suppose. In any case I don’t know how to go about telling them, so I won’t anytime soon.”

Lily nodded to herself. “Me neither, I don’t think.” The conversation at last turned to happier things, but her discomfort stayed with her long after she’d hung up the phone.

* * *

_ii. The Potters_

“Feet down, James, and don’t make me tell you twice,” Euphemia Potter called as she bustled past the dining table.

James, who’d had his feet propped up on the chair opposite his, sat up straight and rolled his eyes, even though his mother could not see. 

“I thought the tablecloth hid my feet,” he said to Sirius, who was busy wolfing down his own breakfast as if he’d never seen food before.

“Your mum’s got a sixth sense,” Sirius said, his mouth full. “I don’t even live here and _I_ know that.”

Euphemia had vanished from sight, but she shouted, “You do live here!” from down the hall. James and Sirius exchanged amused looks.

“Sixth sense,” said Sirius again.

“Wait until the honeymoon period’s over,” James said, stabbing his fork into a sausage. “Once Mum and Dad start treating you like their son, and not a visiting dignitary, you’ll be sorry.” 

“Mate, you’re the most spoiled fucker I know,” Sirius replied, grinning. “If they start treating me like their son, the worst that could happen is my head finally getting as big as yours.”

In response James kicked him under the table.

Euphemia reappeared almost out of thin air. “No kicking at the breakfast table, boys.” This comment was directed at James, not Sirius, whom Euphemia patted absentmindedly on the back as she walked past. James gave her an affronted look.

“Why are you pacing the length of the house, anyway? It’s making me dizzy,” he said.

“I’m reacquainting myself with the dimensions of the hallway and the dining room. Karen comes in at noon and we’ll go over the menu then, so I can’t waste her time thinking about decorations. I’ll have to do them this morning — or perhaps after she leaves.” Euphemia frowned thoughtfully. “Yes, why not, the party’s at night anyway…”

James sighed. Not for the first time did he wish his mother actually had the temperament of an elderly woman. His father was, at this very moment, having a lie-in, which amounted to doing the _Prophet_ crossword in bed because he felt he deserved the extra rest with a social engagement around the corner. The social engagement in question was Euphemia’s Christmas party, which she threw not every year but “when I feel like it.” As far as James could tell, she _felt like it_ on Christmases when James and Fleamont were particularly lazy. 

The party always turned out splendidly, though it was an effort of merely two minds and wands: Euphemia’s, and Karen the housekeeper’s. Both viewed James’s infrequent offers to help with deep suspicion, and instead charged Fleamont with completing any complex tasks they could not manage themselves. Only the most menial of jobs would be given to James — and, he supposed, Sirius now. James comforted himself with the knowledge that Karen, a plump, middle-aged witch who’d kept the Potters’ house since he was a boy, would fawn over him as she always did, and he could then tell off his mother for being rude to him. 

“James? Sirius?”

The disembodied voice — for once, not Euphemia’s — made both boys startle. 

“Christ, I forgot I had it on me.” James pulled the two-way mirror from the pocket of his robe, gesturing for Sirius to come closer so he too could see. Remus appeared in it, frowning and squinting like Fleamont attempting to read without his spectacles. “You all right, or has the castle burned down?”

Remus rolled his eyes. “With you three away, the castle’s breathing a sigh of relief.”

Sirius snorted. “Yes, a good Christmas Eve to you _too_ , Moony.”

“Is that Remus? And Peter?” Euphemia said. 

“Just Remus,” said James. “Peter’s with his parents.” 

The Marauders preferred to split two and two for Christmas and Easter if not all of them could go home for the holiday. The full moon came early enough in January that Remus had opted to stay; Peter would have stayed with him, but his mother had insisted, and Euphemia had insisted too. 

In the end Remus had told them he’d be fine on his own — and, privately, had added to James that it might be best for Sirius to settle in at the Potters soon after his very public disowning. The compromise had been leaving Remus with Sirius’s mirror. Peter had a habit of being sequestered at home over Christmas and Easter, so James did not expect to see much of him, but they would at least be going to Evan Wronecki’s New Year bash. 

Euphemia beamed, gently but firmly pushing James out of the way so she could peer at the mirror. “Next year, all four of you boys are coming here for Christmas,” she said, the invitation sounding remarkably like a threat.

Remus flushed beet-red. “That’s really kind of you, Mrs. Potter.”

“Nah, Mum, we’re staying at Hogwarts next year. Last one, after all,” said James with the utmost confidence. 

Euphemia looked so disappointed, James almost regretted it. He reminded himself that his mother had a lifetime of pampering his friends and teasing him ahead of her. 

“Well,” she said with a sigh, “the one _after_ that, then.” And she was off again, striding down the hallway and eyeing the ceiling critically. 

Belatedly, Remus called, “We’ll be there!”

“She’s gone,” said James, laughing. “So, who _is_ at Hogwarts for the holidays?”

“None of the other Gryffindor sixth years. In fact, not many of the sixth years at all.” Remus grew thoughtful. “I expect many of them are thinking like you, Prongs, and agreed to go back this Christmas so they can stay next year.”

“Sounds boring,” said Sirius. “Please tell me you aren’t shut up in Gryffindor Tower doing homework.”

Remus smiled. “Give me a little more credit than that. We’ve had a great load of snow — Lottie Fenwick and Gaurav Singh and I had a snowball fight last night.”

“Who?” said Sirius.

“Last _night?”_ repeated James.

“Ravenclaws, both of them. And yes, at night — more fun than during the day, isn’t it?”

James’s eyebrows rose. “I hope you didn’t give away all our secrets to a couple of Ravenclaws.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I did enchant a permanently-frozen snowball to follow Bertram Aubrey around, though,” Remus said, the picture of innocence. James guffawed with laughter.

Sirius was still frowning. “Singh, I know. Who’s Lottie Fenwick? Is she the brunette, with the—” He mimed something that James identified, at last, as plaits.

“No, you’re thinking of the Duckling,” supplied James.

“Oh, don’t call her that,” Remus said, frowning. 

“So Lottie Fenwick isn’t the Duckling?” said Sirius.

“ _Don’t call her that!_ Who came up with that nickname, anyway?”

“Lottie’s blonde,” James said, ignoring Remus. “She’s got, what d’you call ’em, ringlets? She’s very energetic.”

Sirius sniggered. “That sounds rude.”

James rolled his eyes. “ _Not_ in the sack. I wouldn’t know what Lottie Fenwick’s like in the sack.”

“You’re both awful,” Remus declared. “Lottie’s really quite nice, and so is the Duckling.”

James and Sirius exchanged gleeful glances. Then they burst into laughter.

“You called her—” Sirius half-gasped.

“—the Duckling—” choked out James.

“I’m going away now!” said Remus loudly. “I hope your gifts get lost in the post.”

“Ah, Remus, don’t be like that—”

They were both still chuckling when Remus vanished from view. Euphemia swanned back into the dining room, giving Sirius and James a look that did not bode well.

“Whatever you want us to do—” James began.

“The city will be terribly crowded, it’s true, but I still think you two ought to go to Diagon Alley. Sirius needs more clothes than he’s brought back! Well?” Euphemia looked at James, who just shrugged.

His best mate had left the vast majority of his things in his childhood home, where, Sirius had informed him with a dark sort of humour, they were probably even now being burned in a fireplace. 

“If she can get the posters off the walls, that is,” Sirius had added. "She'd set fire to the cat if she could. I was the only one who took care of her anyway."

“It can wait until after Christmas, I think,” said James now, glancing at Sirius. The other wizard was pointedly looking at his empty plate. 

Euphemia wisely let the subject drop, but gave James a meaningful look that suggested the two of them would be discussing this at a later point. 

“Well, Sirius, we’ll alter some of James’s dress robes to fit you, then. Shouldn’t be an issue.”

“Dress robes?” James repeated. “Oh, Mum, do we really need to—”

“Did you think you could stop by in your pajamas, say hello, grab a tray of food, and leave?” said Euphemia.

“Well, I was hoping.”

“ _Please_ , James. You know, I’m getting old—”

“Here it comes,” James said to Sirius.

Raising her voice as if James had not spoken at all, Euphemia carried on. “—and the least you can do for your aging mother is speak to her friends at a Christmas party—”

“You won’t like half the people there.”

“Not true!”

“You complained about Alfred Fawcett for a whole day after the last party,” said James.

Euphemia gave a long sigh. “One person who was being quite rude isn’t _half the people_ at the party, James. Don’t be unreasonable. Besides, I was sticking up for you!”

“Me!” James cast Sirius a bewildered look. For his part, Sirius seemed to have emerged from his momentary awkwardness, and was watching the proceedings with unconcealed delight.

“Yes, you! Alfred was going _on_ and _on_ about his perfect grandson’s perfect marks and perfect Quidditch matches — _pah!_ ”

James grinned at last, shaking his head. “Ah, Mum, you’re getting soft.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Euphemia lightly. “Didn’t you say you wanted to meet Barty Crouch? He ought to be coming.”

James sat up straight at that. “Oh, really? Good, there’s at least one adult I’ll say hi to without yawning — only joking, don’t give me that look—”

Sirius made a face. “That means we’ll need to avoid his son, though.”

This had not occurred to James; he shuddered. “You should’ve seen his face at the Slug Club party. He looked more upset than Slughorn.”

Euphemia sighed. “The boy’s fourteen, James. At least he’s polite and well-behaved.”

“And I wasn’t, at fourteen?”

She gave him a look. “Now, I know it’s a holiday, but _please_ get dressed sometime before the afternoon, or Karen and I will waste precious time talking about our good-for-nothing children.” She flapped a hand at them.

“We’re not finished eating!” James protested.

“Sirius is! Hurry up, don’t keep him waiting.” She left the dining room abruptly once more.

James once again rolled his eyes, not without fondness. “Can you believe her?”

“Ridiculous,” said Sirius, shaking his head. He was smiling. 

* * *

_iii. Christmas Correspondence_

From Dorcas Walker to Michael Meadowes:

> _Dear Michael,_
> 
> _As promised, I am writing you! Happy Christmas in advance. Your present is our Ancient Runes homework._
> 
> _Joking. Mum reads for fun a lot more than I do, so I asked for her advice in picking this out. She says Cymbeline O’Shaughnessy is nearly as good as Agatha Christie. I don’t know about that, but I do want to hear what you think about magical mysteries and if they’re as good as Muggle ones. I quite like the inventive ways the detectives solve them, but considering what I want to do after Hogwarts, that’s not as high a recommendation as it could be._
> 
> _I hope you and your family are doing well. Tell them I say hello. Well, they don’t know who I am, but tell them I say hello anyway._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Dorcas_
> 
> _P.S. I do actually want to ask about the Ancient Runes essay, but I’ll refrain until after Christmas Day._

From Michael Meadowes to Dorcas Walker:

> _Dear Dorcas,_
> 
> _How did you manage to send me a Christmas present and use the phrase ‘Ancient Runes’ twice in your letter? In any case, thank you for being so punctual with your gifts. I was worried I’d have to send you yours and then a different letter replying to yours, and then you’d send me a different letter replying to mine — you get the point._
> 
> _I promise I was going to send you something normal, like a novel, but my dad waylaid me before I could. Something about the best gifts being personal, and all that. (No offence to you and your gift-giving practices, of course.) So here’s the Agatha Christie I promised you along with a jar of our honey. Yes, Dad keeps bees. Yes, I’ve been stung before. Yes, it’s annoying every single time._
> 
> _Dad says hello and wants me to point you out to him when we’re at King's Cross next week. Mum says hello and wants you to know your name is pretty. Gosh, that was more information than I thought this letter would contain._
> 
> _As for Ancient Runes, I declare that subject to be taboo. You and I both know we’re going to do fine on our holiday homework, so there’s no reason to discuss it at all. Tell me what you’re doing for fun instead._
> 
> _I will preemptively give you my news. I mentioned my ex-girlfriend, Katie, to you and your friends earlier. Her mum throws a yearly Christmas party, which my family will be attending. Mum and Dad insist that it’d be rude not to. So...wish me luck._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Michael_

From Mélanie Deschamps-Gill to James Potter:

> _Cher James,_
> 
> _Joyeux Noël from Marrakesh, Morocco! I wasn’t convinced when Shruti said we should spend December in a warm country, but I’m glad I listened. I’m sending you a photograph of us in the carpet souk (that’s like a bazaar). Shruti dared me to try and ride one. It was a Muggle carpet, as it turned out, and we both looked very foolish. Proper presents for you and your mother will follow._
> 
> _I was waiting for you to write in September, but I know how to take a hint. No hard feelings. Just don’t be weird, all right? Some unsolicited advice: talk to the girl you fancy. You gain far more by being straightforward about your feelings._
> 
> _Grosses bises,_
> 
> _Mel_

From Mary Macdonald, sent to Germaine King, Dorcas Walker, and Lily Evans:

> _Girls,_
> 
> _I will not accept no for an answer: we are going to Evan Wronecki’s. I really had a blast last year, and I want to share it with you! Happy Christmas, by the way. I hope you all like your presents._
> 
> _Mary xx_

From Dex Fortescue to Lily Evans:

> _Dear Lily,_
> 
> _I’m so glad to hear your mum liked the treats. I want to send you more creative things than just Galleon biscuits, if you’ll only let me! Sorry to hear you’ve been arguing with your sister. Is her boyfriend still as bad as ever?_
> 
> _I should have been more proactive finding a time for us to meet, I’m sorry. The Christmas holidays really go by so quickly. But I hope I’ll see you at Evan’s? I realise I never asked if parties are your thing, but even if they aren’t, it’s a big house, and I’m pretty good company._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Dex_

From James Potter to Mélanie Deschamps-Gill:

> _Dear Mel,_
> 
> _Happy Christmas. Marrakesh looks unbelievable. I’m going to need a running list of all the places you’ve been. I hope you didn’t steal the carpet before you realised it wasn’t magic? Thank you for the spices — Mum was positively glowing when we got them._
> 
> _I’m sorry I didn’t write earlier. I know I’m a git. You know I’m a git. It’s a fact of life. I’m sorry. And I won’t be weird. My mother raised me to be absolutely shameless. On the subject of the girl, I don’t think I will be telling her. Before you get all outraged, we’ve been getting along all right this past term. I don’t want to fuck it up, not when I’m getting over her. Thanks anyway._
> 
> _James_
> 
> _P.S. I had to ask Sirius — the best mate I told you about — what “grosses bises” meant. I thought it was something rude._

From Lily Evans to Dex Fortescue:

> _Dear Dex,_
> 
> _I would like to try things other than Galleon biscuits, yes, but they’re just so good. Why fix what isn’t broken? Never mind my sister and her silly boyfriend. I’m being a brat. At the end of the day I’m glad to be home._
> 
> _Really, you don’t have to apologise. It’s a busy time of year, and I know your family must want you to themselves. As for Evan’s, Mary Macdonald has talked my mum into letting me go, so I think you’ll be seeing me there after all. Parties are my thing, I’d say, but I will withhold judgment about this particular party until I'm there. The stories range from daunting to outlandish._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Lily_

From Sara Shafiq to LIly Evans:

> _Dear Lily,_
> 
> _How are the holidays treating you? I'm in London staying with my aunt for a few days, only she's constantly glued to her desk — a side-effect of not celebrating Christmas, unfortunately. (I'm still making her go shopping with me.) Anyway, I thought I'd send you some tea, since I know how much you love it. My aunt also said to let you know that she was serious about the Ministry summer programs, and that she and her coworkers are always happen to take on promising young aides! How exciting, you and Doe really do seem to have impressed her. You simply must tell me all about your conversation with her._
> 
> _I'm seeing you at Evan Wronecki's, aren't I? Mary says she's going to make you lot come._
> 
> _Love and kisses,_
> 
> _Sara_

From Dorcas Walker to Michael Meadowes:

> _Dear Michael,_
> 
> _The honey is wonderful. My parents have been finding ways to use it in everything, but we’re far from sick of it. We would like some more personalised gifts! Also, how kind of your mum. I’d love to say hi._
> 
> _As for what I’m doing for fun, hm — my family tends to have boring holiday traditions. On Christmas we visited my grandparents and ate our way through Nan’s rock-hard fruitcake, and I tried really hard to be nice to some of my less bearable cousins. The fun really starts on New Year’s Eve, when Dad’ll get mad drunk and sing “Auld Lang Syne” non-stop._
> 
> _But look, don’t keep me hanging. What happened with Katie? WRITE BACK._
> 
> _Dorcas_

From Michael Meadowes to Dorcas Walker:

> _Dear Dorcas,_
> 
> _I’m glad you liked the honey. I’m going to conveniently forget to tell my parents, or they’ll come to King's Cross with a cartload for you._
> 
> _Less bearable cousins? I’m shocked to hear you don’t actually have infinite patience. Or, I suppose they must be pretty bad if you have more patience for the rock-hard fruitcake._
> 
> _What happened with Katie was...a load of nothing. Which is what I’d prefer, I think. She did make a pass at me, but I hadn’t snuck enough of the wine to make that mistake again. It just seems silly to slide back into all that._
> 
> _Was that juicy and detailed enough for you?_
> 
> _Michael_
> 
> _P.S. Do you also get mad drunk and sing “Auld Lang Syne”?_

From Dorcas Walker to Michael Meadowes:

> _Dear Michael,_
> 
> _I could do with a cartload of honey!_
> 
> _Didn’t you once tell me you seem like a nice bloke but aren’t, actually? I seem like a very nice girl, but even I have my limits._
> 
> _That was not detailed enough, though certainly interesting. Look at you, standing strong despite the festive spirit and the wine and your tempting ex. I’ll have to ask you for more information in person, then. Mary’s been trying to get us all to go to Evan Wronecki’s holiday party, which should be...an experience?_
> 
> _Dorcas_
> 
> _P.S. Some secrets are mine to keep._

From Michael Meadowes to Dorcas Walker:

> _Dear Dorcas,_
> 
> _I’ve yet to see these limits, so I remain sceptical._
> 
> _You’ll just have to ask in person, yes. And blimey, Wronecki’s party — don’t come back with alcohol poisoning._
> 
> _Michael_
> 
> _P.S. How rude._

From Sirius Black to Regulus Black:

> _Regulus,_
> 
> _Bring Heathcliff with you to King's Cross. I'll keep her with me from now on._
> 
> _Sirius_

* * *

_iv. The Potters, Again_

The long marble halls of the Potters’ Virginia Water estate were, for a change, full of people and conversation. They’d had a white Christmas — the snow was still falling in little tufts outside, which delighted Euphemia to no end. The lights and silvery decorations looked even brighter against the snowy scene through the windows, and several well-placed charms kept the chill away.

Euphemia had deliberated longest over the music, partly because Sirius and James had nagged at her all day to leave them in charge of it. She’d protested, saying her guests would keel over listening to the _noise_ they preferred. In the end they’d won out, and Sirius had chosen Lesley Gore to be funny. James was certain that sort of cheek would have earned him a powerful glare, but he’d caught his mother wiggling her shoulders along to “It’s My Party” — _honestly!_

Every now and then they slipped out of the hall and into the kitchen instead, restless. Karen was bustling around there, sending enchanted platters off through the crowd every minute or so. Still, she found the time and energy to shoo James and Sirius away anytime they tried to hide inside. The hiding was because the less interesting guests had arrived first — less interesting in James’s estimation, at least. 

“We need to get Gerald Pucey roaring drunk,” he told Sirius as they skulked in a corner of the hall. “Then we can have him tell us weird stories all evening, and Mum can’t fault us for not socialising.”

Sirius looked as though he would have preferred to stay right in this corner. “She wouldn’t fault _me,_ ” he pointed out.

“No,” agreed James, “but you still suffer if she spends all of tomorrow scolding me.” 

“Fair point,” Sirius said glumly.

Any other occasion of this kind would have had the pair plotting a disruption. But such plans had been set aside for Euphemia’s sake — and the price they knew they would pay for the rest of the holiday if they tried anything funny. Squabbling and dramatics aside, James wouldn’t have dreamed of getting in his mother’s way. Euphemia had a youthful brightness in her eyes as she flitted from guest to guest; even James and Sirius, teenage boys though they were, watched this with affection.

“Frank Longbottom,” said Sirius suddenly.

James arched an eyebrow. “Are we naming random people? Mine’s Bertie Bott.”

“Fuck off. I mean Frank Longbottom’s over there, and we ought to go talk to him.”

Indeed, Frank was standing by his imposing-looking mother, looking just as helplessly bored as James and Sirius felt.

“Thank God,” said James fervently, and they started off towards him.

Frank looked just as relieved to see them as they had him. "Oh, good, I didn't know if you lot were home for the hols."

"We didn't know _you'd_ be," said Sirius. "Who's guarding Hogwarts in your absence, eh?"

Frank sighed. "Some of us drew the short straw — Alice, unfortunately—" Mrs. Longbottom sniffed "—it helps that the castle's all but empty anyway."

"I'll bet. I can't believe they gave you a day off but not your dad," said James.

"Alistair has urgent paperwork," said Mrs. Longbottom. "I did tell Euphemia, having a party the day after Christmas means Ministry personnel are back at their desks already—"

James resisted the urge to point out that many of the guests _were_ Ministry personnel who seemed unbothered by the date of the party, and that paperwork didn't sound particularly urgent.

"—in any case, Frank, why haven't you introduced me to this young man?" Mrs. Longbottom's steely gaze fell upon Sirius. "The elder Black boy, if I'm not mistaken?"

Frank flushed and introduced Sirius to his mother, who seemed altogether unimpressed by his existence, and the wizards then set off in search of appetisers.

“Karen will let us sneak the best stuff before the old men get their grubby hands on it,” James assured them. 

Unfortunately for him, Euphemia had walked past at that very moment; her eyes went wide with horror, and before they could protest or even process what was going on, she’d saddled them with a vaguely familiar older wizard who seemed intent on consuming all the Potters’ brandy. There was nothing to it — they found themselves answering questions about Hogwarts and coursework. James could only look longingly in the direction of the kitchen. 

Euphemia had not introduced the man to them; she’d called him Mick and pushed James at him, saying, “My son!” before disappearing once more. James had mentally started calling him Mick Jagger, though he sounded a great deal more Scottish. He almost reminded him of—

“And Longbottom, how’s the Auror program?” Mick Jagger asked.

This took James by surprise. He’d told Mick his name, and Sirius’s — Mick had squinted at this and said “Hum!” — but Frank hadn’t introduced himself, had he? James sniffed at his own drink, wondering if _he’d_ been accidentally drinking brandy too.

“Gruelling,” Frank admitted with a laugh. “But it’ll be worth it in the end.”

Mick let out a big belly laugh of his own. “Oh, yes! I nearly failed Hit Wizard training, back in the day. Twice.” He chortled. “Couldn’t get rid of me, though.”

Sirius stared at him, wide-eyed. “You’re a Hit Wizard?”

“Retired,” said Mick, sighing. “Never have an opinionated daughter, boys. She’ll keep you at home for _your own safety_ , and all sorts of nonsense like that.”

All of a sudden Mick was shoved to the side, hard enough that he sloshed his brandy. 

“Jesus, save us!” he shouted.

“It’s Christmas, Da. You’re supposed to keep the Lord’s name out of your mouth,” Marlene McKinnon said piously. “Oh, is that brandy?”

“Marlene!” James blinked at this sudden appearance — and the revelation that followed. “Wait—” The senior McKinnon appeared even less frequently than Alistair Longbottom at James's parents’ get-togethers — a side-effect of the man’s career. “Mr. McKinnon, I didn’t even recognise you.”

“I’m not that old yet, Potter. And my first name isn’t Mister,” said Mick.

“It isn’t Mick either,” said Marlene, rolling her eyes. “Hello Frank, Sirius. Da hasn’t been telling you anything stupid, has he?”

“Only not to have opinionated daughters,” Sirius said, grinning.

Marlene scoffed. “Please never reproduce at all, Black.”

“But Frank and I can reproduce?” James wanted to know.

“Don’t push your luck.”

Mick boomed another laugh, slapping his daughter on the back. James preemptively winced, but Marlene did not twitch in the slightest.

“Sit down, you old drunk,” Marlene said. “I don’t want to have to Apparate you home.”

Mick pressed his hands together in a gesture of supplication. “I’m going, Marly, I’m going.”

As he retreated, Frank said, grinning, _“Marly?”_

“Don’t you dare, Longbuttocks,” Marlene sniped back. “What were you all doing, socialising without me?”

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” said James honestly. “I definitely didn’t think Old Mick would be here. Since when is he retired?”

“He isn’t that old, is he?” Sirius was watching Mick go; he was bulldozing his way through the crowd, really, his impressive height and build easy to spot even from a distance. 

“He didn’t stop going to work because he’s old. Don’t let the bluster fool you.” Her expression softened. “He’s taken his fair share of spell damage — more than his fair share. Technically it isn’t a full retirement. He does administrative work. He just claims that _doesn’t count_.”

Sirius shook his head. “Now that I’ve met your parents—” this directed at James “—your mum—” this to Frank “—and your dad, Marlene, I understand you three a lot better.”

“I’m taking that as a compliment,” said James.

“You know what, yeah, that’s not fair to Fleamont or Euphemia. I rescind it.”

James rolled his eyes; as he did, he caught sight of a pale, fair-haired figure some distance away, and ducked on instinct.

“Who are we hiding from?” Frank said, amusement colouring his voice.

“I thought I saw Crouch Junior,” said James, peering around Marlene. “I’d rather not speak with him. Weirdo.”

“Barty Crouch’s son?” Marlene turned and craned her neck, ignoring James’s attempts to shush her. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Ostensibly, nothing,” began James.

“He’s — intense,” said Sirius, squinting in the direction James thought he’d seen him in.

“Well, as the Crouches aren’t coming, it’s definitely not him,” said Frank.

James straightened. “What d’you mean, the Crouches aren’t coming? Mum said—”

“No, when Mum and I arrived and said hello to yours, my mum asked about them. Apparently Crouch sent a last-minute owl saying something had come up.” Frank shrugged.

“Something had _come up_? Those were Mum’s words?”

Frank held his hands up in surrender. “I’m paraphrasing, I don’t know. Point is, they won’t be here.”

James put his hands in his pockets, frowning. “Damn, I wanted to talk to him.”

“Cheer up,” said Sirius, “at least this way we know we’ll avoid Junior.”

It was nearing nine o’clock, and James, Sirius, Frank, and Marlene had finally sat down, claiming one little table for their own and giving blank-eyed stares to any adult who attempted to come closer. (The exception to this was Euphemia, who’d stopped by early on to ask if Frank and Marlene wanted anything. She’d called it the _kiddie table_ , to James’s absolute mortification.) 

“Do you think they’d notice if we started playing Exploding Snap?” said Sirius.

“Mum would notice,” James said darkly. 

The others did not argue this point. Euphemia did seem to have eyes in the back of her head.

“We should go outside,” said Marlene, peering out a nearby window. 

“Outside!” repeated Frank. “It’s cold!”

“Are you or are you not a wizard?”

“I don’t want to move,” Sirius announced.

“Fresh air would be nice,” James said thoughtfully.

“Yes, it would be!” said Marlene.

“All right, you don’t have to knock on the window like a toddler,” Frank said, sounding a touch cranky.

“I’m _not_ knocking on the window.”

At once they all turned to said window. A huge, handsome eagle owl was rapping insistently at the glass.

“Jesus, all right,” said James, getting to his feet to undo the latch. “Any harder and you’ll break the bloody thing—”

The owl breezed right past him and into the crowd, followed by a chilly gust of night air. Marlene shivered; Frank muttered something that sounded like _I told you so_. 

“If the owl leaves any droppings in the hall, I’m finished,” James said, trying to spot who the bird was headed for.

Sirius was waving frantically at him. “Oh, Merlin’s tit, shut the window!”

“What—”

James turned back to the open window, but it was too late. A barrage of owls flew straight through; the sound of beating wings was nearly as loud as the voices and the music. As the guests realised something was happening, the owls’ rustling became the only noise in the hall. James’s stomach turned to lead. The guests were important people — Ministry officials, influential wizarding families. Owls pouring in at this rate could not mean anything good.

The others had come to the same conclusion. Grim-faced, Marlene jumped out of her chair and vanished into the crowd; she returned moments later with parchment clutched in her fist.

“Da got one,” she explained. “He’s Apparated off. I expect Frank and I will get them too, but—” The letter had already been opened; she unfolded it, and the other three read over her shoulder.

> _From the Office of the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement_
> 
> _DMLE NOTICE: URGENT_
> 
> _DATE AND TIME: 26 December, 1976, 8:17 p.m._
> 
> _Dark Mark above Hogsmeade. Two dead. Aurors report to J. Fawley. All personnel stand by. Await further instructions._
> 
> _Bartemius Crouch_
> 
> _Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

James swallowed. His throat was very, very dry.

“Dark Mark— _Hogsmeade_? What the fuck?” said Sirius hoarsely.

 _Two dead. Two dead_. The words were swimming before his eyes. 

“Mum,” James said, “I have to find her — Everyone needs to get back to their own homes—”

“Are there wards around the house, James?” Marlene said, seizing him by the shoulder before he could run off.

“What? I — yes, there are, but—”

“No Anti-Apparition,” Frank said, latching the window shut once more. He and Marlene had become suddenly businesslike; if James had had the capacity, he’d have marvelled at this change.

“There’s probably at least one other Auror here,” said Marlene. “C’mon, Longbottom. James, go find your mother.”

He didn’t need telling twice. With Sirius on his heels, James pushed through the crowd. Euphemia, true to form, was at the very centre of it, Fleamont at her elbow. He relaxed a little at the sight of them — they would know what to do. He could almost hear his mother telling the crowd to settle down, not to worry… But then he caught sight of her expression. She looked — _distraught_ was the word that came to mind, and the one that followed was _tired_. _Old_. It wasn’t right. Euphemia Potter never flagged. James suddenly felt very, very young.

As though he’d sensed this train of thought, Sirius forced James past the last few guests standing between them and the Potters. His friend was visibly angry, James saw, and resolute. He drew in a breath, shaking off his fear, and then he was taking his mother’s hand.

“It’ll be all right,” was the first thing he said. The words tasted strange in his mouth — no, strange to say it to her, his mother. “Dad, can you get people into the library? People can Floo home. I think Frank and Marlene said something about the Anti-Apparition Jinx—” 

It dawned on James why, exactly, they’d thought of it. They were worried that someone — Death Eaters? — would come _here_. 

His father startled into action at his words. “Yes,” Fleamont said, straightening his spectacles. “Yes, quite right, good thinking—” Raising his voice, he called for guests to follow him. Already the hall was full of the cracking sound of Apparition — tight-faced Ministry workers vanished, though their families remained. 

Mere minutes passed before Frank Longbottom told the remaining guests that they’d cut off Apparition, but he could take anyone who didn’t have a Floo connection to the main road and Side-Along if need be. A clump of people followed him out the front door; Euphemia drifted close to watch them go, still looking shocked. 

In the middle of murmured farewells, she started and said, “Karen— She won’t have heard, she ought to go home too—”

“I’ll go tell her,” Sirius said promptly, jogging towards the kitchen.

Euphemia squeezed James’s hand, still clasped in hers. “I didn’t think…”

“No one could have,” he assured her. “The Aurors will sort it out.”

“They will,” she said, though she did not sound as though she fully believed it. 

James felt a hard burst of anger — not at her, but at the faceless figures in his mind he associated with the Dark Mark, with You-Know-Who. 

“You should go lie down,” he said. “Dad and I will see the last of the guests off.”

Karen, looking pale and frightened, hurried towards them before James could press the issue. Euphemia embraced her briefly. 

“I’ll walk you to where it’s safe to Apparate from,” said Sirius, ushering her out the door. Karen did not even pause to coo over this chivalry. They continued into the snowy night.

“Mum,” James said again, this time more forcefully, “go lie down.”

“I can’t.” Some of the iron had returned to her voice; relief filled James at the sound of it. “Your father’s had too much Firewhisky—”

Fleamont had looked quite sober, James thought, but his mother had a point. “Then Sirius and I will do it.”

“The lights — the food, the decorations—”

He put his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. “ _Mum_ , just go. We know how to clean up.”

Euphemia pressed her lips together, and nodded. “Send your father up, please, he shouldn’t overexert himself—”

“Yeah, got it—” James had started towards the library already.

“James,” said Euphemia suddenly.

“What?” He swivelled around, almost expecting to see a new host of owls swarming through the door. _Parliament_ , he thought dimly, _it’s a parliament of owls_.

But there was nothing. Just his mother, looking at him with an unreadable expression on her face. She pressed a hand to his cheek and kissed his forehead. “Go on, darling.”

James waited for her to disappear up the stairs before heading off to fetch his father; it took far less convincing to dispatch Fleamont. Not long after, the front door thudded shut, and Sirius appeared in the library doorway as the last guest had vanished in a blaze of green fire.

“Frank and Marlene are gone,” Sirius said, panting. “Fawley’s summoned them all, trainees included — but they said it’d probably be safer to keep the Anti-Apparition Jinx overnight anyway.”

James nodded, momentarily numb. _Hogsmeade_. What if they delayed the start of the next term? What if the — _two dead_ were people they knew? Faces flickered through his mind: the young, chirpy assistant in Zonko’s, the bored-looking woman who worked in the post office, Madam Rosmerta. 

“You all right?” said Sirius quietly.

“I will be,” James said after a moment. It couldn’t have been later than ten, but it felt like the dead of night. “C’mon. Let’s put all the food away.” They trooped back into the dining room; with a grimace, Sirius lifted the needle off the Lesley Gore record, and slipped it back into its sleeve. 

* * *

_v. Worse News_

Lily had woken early on the morning of the 27th, not by choice. But once awake she could not fall asleep again; annoyed, she wandered into the kitchen, where her mother had already put the teakettle on. Doris kissed her good morning.

“Would you mind watching the kettle, love? I slept so poorly.” Doris lowered herself into a chair at the dining table with a wince.

“Yeah, ’course,” said Lily, brow furrowing in concern. She looked at her mother, _really_ looked at her. Her blonde hair, once long and buttery like Petunia’s, was in a bob now, and had lost some of its lustre. Doris was a bad sleeper, just as Lily had become. There were always faint indentations under her eyes; today they were a little more purple than usual. “You should rest this afternoon.” 

Doris smiled. “I will. Get me my first cuppa, and I’m sure it’ll fade.”

“Or...you could rest this afternoon.”

Her mother only smiled wider, putting on her reading glasses and turning to the dog-eared book she’d left on the table: _Mansfield Park_. 

“Of all the Austen to reread,” said Lily, laughing.

Doris gave her a stern look. “You’re the one who keeps stealing away my _Pride and Prejudice_! What am I supposed to do?”

“Read _Emma_ , obviously. And, pardon, _your Pride and Prejudice_? Dad bought them for us both, if I recall correctly—”

Lily pulled out a battered biscuit tin and poured the tea — _just_ enough milk, _just_ enough sugar, just as her mother had taught her — into two cups. She was setting them down when she heard a familiar tap at the window. 

“That’ll be the _Prophet_ ,” she said, straightening. “Good, I’ve been dying to check my crossword answers—” 

She thanked the owl with a biscuit, unrolling the paper as she walked back to the table. As she always did, Lily shook out the _Prophet_ and turned her attention to the front page headlines — and then she froze. Her body seemed to react even if her brain could not process it; she let out a soft cry, a hand going automatically to her mouth.

“What? What’s wrong?” Doris appeared at Lily’s shoulder, her expression anxious. “Lily?”

She lowered the paper and drew in a shaky breath. Her mother prised it from her hand, frowning.

“Oh, heavens, the poor things,” said Doris, putting her arm around Lily and giving her a comforting squeeze. “The — Dark Mark? What’s that?”

The question, so innocently asked, made Lily want to cry. She had been foolish, she realised, thinking she and Mary could have avoided this conversation for another year and a half. Not with things as they stood. 

She cleared her throat, avoiding her mother’s gaze. “Sit down, the tea’s going to get cold.”

“Lily Jane, don’t be evasive with me.”

“I’m not. Please, Mum, sit down and I’ll explain.” 

Doris was still watching her with worry, but she returned to her chair. Lily sat down beside her, staring into her own teacup. How to begin? 

She took a deep breath. “I might have mentioned, at some point, that there are some magical people who — don’t like people like me.”

Doris blinked. “People like...you?”

“People with non-magical parents.”

“Muggleborns?” Her mother stumbled slightly over the word. Lily smiled a little, touched that she had tried to remember the terminology.

“Exactly. People who have only magical families, they’re purebloods. They feel threatened by us, and the Dark Mark is…the symbol of a particular group of people who’re vocal in that belief.” Lily’s voice was steady through this explanation; it felt strangely impersonal, as though she were reciting from a history book. She took a sip of her tea.

“How long has this been going on?” Doris was shaking her head, looking stunned. “How long have there been— What are they—”

“They call themselves Death Eaters.”

In hindsight, this was not a very reassuring thing to say.

“ _Death Eaters_?” Doris repeated, her voice rising in both volume and pitch. “How long have they been around?”

“Not long — as long as I’ve been alive, maybe. But their beliefs are...really old, Mum.”

Her mother’s fear was being replaced by something else — anger, Lily realised.

“They bring you into their world, and then they tell you don’t belong?” Doris gave an incredulous laugh. “It’s preposterous — it’s heinous!”

“It’s my world too,” said Lily softly. “Flaws and all, it’s my world.”

Doris jabbed a finger at the _Prophet_. “The people who died, were they like you?”

Lily scanned the article once more, though she’d read enough earlier to know the answer. “One of them, yes.” The other had been from a well-known blood traitor family, apparently, though not one that rang a bell for her. Explaining this was more than her mother needed at present, she judged.

Her mother was peering at the paper. “And this — this place is near your school, isn’t it? Hogsmeade? That’s the village you visit.”

Lily felt sick all of a sudden. The words could not come out fast enough. “Yes, but there’s no safer place to be than Hogwarts. It’s, it’s so heavily warded, Mum, there’s a whole book about it and I can lend it to you if you’d like to read— Our professors are incredibly powerful witches and wizards, and they wouldn’t let anyone hurt us, and Dumbledore is the greatest wizard of his generation, and maybe the generations before and after too, and we’ve got the Aurors—” Abruptly she cut herself off.

Doris watched her with narrowed eyes. The word meant nothing to her, of course, but she latched onto it with the focus of an angry, worried parent. “What is an Auror?”

She had walked right into that one. “A… Someone who works in law enforcement. They’re stationed at the school for our protection.”

“Your school needs _police protection_?”

“No,” Lily said desperately, “it’s a precaution that the Ministry’s taking, that’s all—”

“Do Mary’s parents know about this?” Doris demanded.

“No! No, and _please_ don’t tell them, Mary wanted to speak to them herself—”

“I’ve half a mind to telephone right now.” Her mother had her hands braced against the tabletop, as if to stand.

“Mum!”

“Don’t you _Mum_ me. This is serious, Lily. Do you appreciate that?” 

“Of course I do!” cried Lily. She had never seen her mother so angry: not when her accidental magic had caused mishap after mishap, not when she’d had a physical altercation with a girl in her primary school, not when she and Petunia fought. Lily had always thought her mother did not have an angry sort of voice. She did not tend to shout; her scoldings were tinged more with exasperation than anything else. But the fact that she _did_ not, Lily realised, didn’t mean she _could_ not. 

Doris’s cheeks were bright-red, her face pale. She looked nearly feverish with fury. “I don’t think you do! How _could_ you keep this from me — and from your father?”

Those words were more powerful than any spell; at once the anger seemed to fade from both women. Tears rose to Lily’s eyes. She could not fathom how things had gone so wrong. The injured look her mother wore was too much to bear.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice barely above a croak. “I didn’t want to worry you, that’s all.”

Doris pursed her lips. “I’m worried anyway.”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” said Lily again. “I won’t keep anything else from you, honest.” She tried to take her mother’s hand, but Doris withdrew it.

“Please, Lily. I’m tired. Let’s just — continue this conversation later.”

“No, wait—”

Doris rose, clutching _Mansfield Park_ to her chest. “I think I’ll go lie down. Can you and Petunia manage breakfast by yourselves?”

The conversation was over. Lily sniffed and nodded miserably, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Do you want us to bring you something? Eggs, or toast?”

“No, I’ll be all right.” And her mother was gone, leaving her mostly-full teacup on the table.

Lily’s vision blurred until she could no longer read the letters on the _Prophet_. She had no idea how long she sat there for, tears dripping into her own tea. Finally the stairs gave their telltale squeal; wiping her eyes, she looked up, ready to beg for her mother’s forgiveness if she had to.

But it wasn’t Doris. It was Petunia, her pink robe drawn tight around herself, curiosity written all over her face.

“Is everything all right?”

Lily finished drying her tears and slurped some of her cold tea. “Fine.” She snatched the _Prophet_ from the table before her sister could read the headline too; the last thing she wanted was to have to explain everything again.

Petunia was frowning, but she did not press the issue. “Where’s Mum?”

“She said she slept badly. She went back to bed.”

“Oh, well.” Petunia sighed and made for the kitchen. “Two slices for you?”

Lily had lost her appetite entirely, but she muttered a vague yes. Collecting the teacups, she followed her sister into the kitchen and hovered by the sink.

“Mum looks a bit ill,” she said, rinsing out the cups. “We should take her to a doctor — or if we can’t before I go back to school, _you_ should take her to a doctor.”

Petunia hadn’t looked up from the eggs she was cracking, but her spine had stiffened. She took her sweet time responding. The eggs were sizzling in the frying pan before she turned around to face Lily, her expression blank and unreadable.

“What are you going to do when I get married?” 

Lily blinked at her. “When you — what?” For a panicked moment she wondered if her sister had been engaged without her knowing. But no, she was speaking of a more distant future than that.

“When I get married,” Petunia repeated with exaggerated patience, “are you going to live here? Or will Mum have to manage on her own?”

She was sure she was gaping foolishly, searching for an answer that eluded her. At last Lily said, “I thought...I’d be working in London, maybe, and Mum could come stay with me. Maybe, during the week, at least.”

Petunia smiled without a trace of humour. “Maybe?”

Fresh tears threatened to take over — tears of frustration. Lily wanted to scream. She was all of sixteen, and she had over a year of school left. Why did her sister have to act as though she would be graduating tomorrow, with no plans at all?

“I’m not going to decide everything myself, am I? I have to talk to Mum about it.” Lily set the cups down in the sink with a too-hard _clunk_.

“So you’re going to — work with your sort of people, is it?”

“You can say _magic_ ,” Lily snapped. “Of course I’ll work with _my sort of people_ , Petunia. It’s what I’m going to school for. I can’t go to university — I can’t even take a typist course!” 

The phrasing of this clearly rubbed Petunia — who’d done a typist course herself after school — the wrong way. “So you’re going to involve Mum in this nonsense!” she spluttered.

“She’s already involved. By virtue of _being my mother!”_ Even as she said it, Lily wondered if this was true. Did having a witch in the family put her mother at the same amount of risk she’d be in if she lived with Lily in, say, a magical part of London? 

“I can’t believe you,” Petunia was saying. “You’ve always been so selfish—”

She scoffed. “ _I’m_ selfish! You’re the one acting as if getting married to a _ghoulish_ man like Vernon Dursley means you’ll never be around to take care of Mum!”

“Don’t bring Vernon into this.” Petunia’s cheeks were hot with anger.

“I will,” said Lily obstinately. She clenched her hands into fists. “When are you going to tell him about your freak sister? Or do I have to do that myself too?”

That silenced Petunia. Very softly she said, “Was that a threat?”

Lily could not stand to be there a moment longer. With a little scream of frustration, she turned on her heel and marched out of the kitchen. She stomped up the stairs and into her little bedroom, dropping the needle on the record in her old player without checking to see what it was. “— _still my guitar gently weeps_ ,” George Harrison warbled; Lily choked out a laugh. She turned the volume up, dropped onto her bed, and squeezed her eyes shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i seem to consistently lie about chapter length, don't i? whew! i don't think i've ever updated/revised a chapter as much as this one, hah. special thanks to sparkschaser, who reminded me dex has been missing for too long LOL (sorry, i know you said you don't care for him!)
> 
> the sirius feels in this are brought to you by my reread of the series; i'd just reached poa when i wrote this. sob!!! i also hope you love euphemia and fleamont as much as i love writing them! i've always thought one of james's parents ought to be a strong personality, and i love thinking he gets his dramatics from his mum. 
> 
> some ch-ch-changes: i realised lily's middle initial is canonically "J" and i wanted to make her middle name "jean" just to be contrary but then i started singing "billie jean" every time i wrote "lily jean." i also happened to write some austen bonding between lily and her mum, in case you were wondering what my totally-not-cliche source for "lily jane" is (petunia's is marian, points to whoever guesses the literary connection there). that's why her middle name is different now!
> 
> for those of you who reread, you might also notice some differences in sirius's storyline. i finally skimmed "the prince's tale" and realised the whole incident with snape and the shrieking shack happens before the dada owl (GOD jkr). i debated a lot over cutting this from my outline, but finally decided to follow canon. i HATE retconning things but it would just bother me way too much. so sorry for the weird tweaks!! but the tl;dr is: that stuff happened before easter of their fifth year, sirius got kicked off the quidditch team, and is sort of on his ~last disciplinary straw~.
> 
> the next chapter is very creatively called "new year's resolutions," the third chapter in a row with a party. can you tell i miss social events? i can also tell you the chapter *after* that is called "missed connections" and will feature one (1) surprising platform 9 and 3/4 kiss... on the cheek but... who will it be!
> 
> i now have an update thing in the story summary! i will put in a date when i am positive i can update by then, don't be alarmed if it moves around. a more detailed schedule is available in my profile/bio. if a chapter is in my bio with a tbc i have started outlining it!
> 
> i was trawling ff.net the other day and it turns out people *do* still read my fic there LOL so i will be cross-posting, albeit slowly. (i am thequibblah there as well) if you prefer ff.net, lmk, and i'll hurry along that process! that being said, i prefer ao3 for a multitude of reasons so updates will always come here first.
> 
> FINALLY: in february someone very kindly recommended this story on jilyarchive — if you feel comfortable, lmk who you are so i can dedicate the next chapter to you!! <33
> 
> ok thank you for reading that long note, and thank you as always for reading, kudos-ing, and COMMENTING <3 it warms my heart to have such kind readers — y'all keep me going! 
> 
> xoxo quibblah
> 
> P.S. oh this note is so long! if you want to follow me, i'm @thequibblah on tumblr! i also procrastinated by setting up a very detailed pinterest account for this fic, and can be induced into making more boards public @thequibblah ;)


	12. New Year's Resolutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: While students are away for Christmas, two people are murdered in Hogsmeade and the Dark Mark is conjured above the village. Sirius writes to Regulus about the Black family cat, which he's inadvertently left behind after being kicked out. At Evan Wronecki's party last year, Mary kissed Doc Dearborn but was then ghosted by him. Dorcas tells Michael Meadowes to get a rebound. 
> 
> NOW: The girls head to Evan Wronecki's party. There is an ill-advised drinking game, but suspiciously good music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Nina, for recommending this story on jilyarchive! And to all my repeat reviewers, new and old, thank you so much for reading :)))

_i. Auld Lang Syne_

January first, 1977, was a mild but overcast day. Lily Evans, who put great stock in beginnings but would have scoffed if you called her _superstitious_ , frowned at the clouds when she woke. She slipped out of bed and padded to the kitchen, the first Evans to arise that morning. She planned to make her mother and her sister a nice breakfast in bed — penance of sorts, but also an attempt at an auspicious start to the new year.

Her resolution came to her as she stifled the whistling teakettle, cursing under her breath and praying she hadn’t woken Doris. This year she’d be more honest and communicative with her mother, she decided. It was the least she could do.

Dorcas Walker was the second to wake in her house. She yawned as she put on a fresh pot of coffee, giving her mother a kiss. “Dad’s still in bed?” she said, wryly. Ruth and Doe had been treated to Joe Walker’s “Auld Lang Syne” late into the previous night. Her mother rolled her eyes and nodded.

Laughing to herself, Doe flipped on the wireless and waited for the coffee to brew. She thought new year’s resolutions were rather silly: why did you need a special date to push yourself into being better? Any resolve on her family’s part had come on the morning of the 27th, when they had nervously listened to the WWN report about the Hogsmeade attack. Today, by contrast, was not a serious day.

Remus Lupin ate his breakfast alone on the morning of the first. Well — alone unless you counted Nearly Headless Nick, which Remus did. The ghost sat with him in companionable silence as he buttered his toast. Three days from now, while his friends boarded the Hogwarts Express and the castle filled once more with voices and laughter, he’d go to the Hospital Wing to prepare for the first full moon of the year. But for now, he took comfort in the quiet Great Hall.

Peter Pettigrew was roused — unceremoniously, he thought — by his mother Nancy midway through the morning. There was work to be done. Peter shrugged on a jacket, grimacing at the light rain, and went to feed the clucking chickens in the backyard.

“Bring in the eggs, sweetheart!” Nancy shouted, as she always did. Peter went red, as he always did. Why did his mum think he’d forget to bring in _eggs_ when he fed the _chickens_? He wasn’t stupid. His father, Robbie, was already gone that morning. There was always work to be done, even on New Year’s Day. 

As the chickens — Lucy, Farrah, Annette, Georgiana, and Barbara, that diva — pecked at his shoes, Peter cast his mind ahead to Evan Wronecki’s party, which was taking place that night. It improved his mood almost instantly, the thought of seeing James and Sirius. He wondered how the latter had adjusted to living at the Potters’. Very well, probably, since Sirius was resilient and the Potters were great.

Peter wished _he_ could move in with Euphemia and Fleamont. But not without James, of course, and Sirius too. James’s parents had the same air of effortless confidence as he did, and it always made Peter both envious and awkward. All that aside, he resolved to take a moment at the party to find out how Sirius was doing — not _obviously_ , because that would be profoundly uncool. But Peter could be subtle when he wanted to be.

Mary Macdonald also spent the morning at work. She and her brother Andrew had been charged with weeding their mother’s garden, a task that they set to with unusual cheer. This was because Andrew rather liked spending time with his sister, though he would never have told her.

And Mary was collecting goodwill so that she could go to Evan’s party. She’d secured permission several days before, but that had been before the attack — not that she’d told her parents about it, but she worried they could sense it, somehow. Her copy of the _Prophet_ was squirrelled away in her bedroom; her morning phone calls with Lily were held in undertones. The day before, she’d wondered to Lily if it was a good idea to go at all.

“What if it’s not...safe?” 

“What? Mary!” Lily had said, shocked. “You were the one who cajoled my mum into letting me go!”

Mary resented her use of the word _cajoled_ , though it was an accurate description. She had phoned earlier than usual on the day after Christmas so that she could catch Doris, and had charmed her thoroughly before mentioning the party ever so casually. Mary was sure Lily’s mum saw through this ploy, but in any case she let it happen.

“I know I did,” said Mary, “but didn’t you row with your mother?” Lily hadn’t outright said this, but Mary had gathered it, from her friend’s odd mood.

“Yes, but — I need to take my mind off everything, Mare. I’d like to pretend everything’s normal, before we go back to Hogwarts and it’s all…” Lily had trailed off. They did not know how it would be. All they’d seen was Dumbledore’s statement in a _Prophet_ article, asserting that the school would indeed remain open, and the utmost precaution would be taken with regards to the safety and wellbeing of students. In short, nothing they couldn’t have guessed themselves.

“If you’re certain,” Mary said.

“I am. Didn’t you say Evan lived in one of those posh wizarding neighbourhoods?”

“Well, yes—”

“And that Alec Rosier isn’t invited this year?”

“Well, _yes_ —”

“Then we’re going,” Lily had said. “I’ll write to Germaine, and she and Abigail can pick me up at eight.”

Germaine King woke to a quiet house. Her sister Abigail had visited for Christmas but had not stayed to ring in the new year. As Crouch’s secretary, she was busier than ever. Germaine felt caught between her parents, who were clearly — and poorly — trying to get along for her sake. She did not want another tense breakfast. So she bundled up, crept to the shed in their yard, and retrieved her broomstick, soaring off without telling a soul. The hushed, snow-covered forest eased her troubled mind. She wondered if Emmeline Vance was going to be at Evan Wronecki’s that night.

Sirius Black and James Potter blearily stumbled out of their bedrooms at noon. 

“Dad’s got hangover potion,” James croaked. 

Sirius moaned in response. “Please. Don’t — don’t make any loud noises.”

They inched downstairs, shielding their eyes. Fleamont’s study was their target, the same room they’d pilfered some very potent scotch from the previous night. Some of the festive mood had returned to the Potter household since the disrupted Christmas party. The extra rest had done Euphemia and Fleamont good, and James and Sirius had followed the former’s missives for five whole days, dutifully visiting Diagon Alley to replace the latter’s missing things. The shopping street had been a depressing sight in the wake of the attack, sombre and cold in more ways than the weather.

That did not stop the pair from restocking on essentials such as Dungbombs. Sirius had insisted on a brief diversion to a building full of rickety old flats for rent. “Mum won’t let you move out,” James had said, but he’d accompanied him anyway, both of them grimacing at the mould on the walls and the suspicious looks the neighbours gave them.

They were at the door to the study when Euphemia trilled out a greeting. Starting guiltily, Sirius and James turned to see the knowing look in her eyes.

She was smiling, though she was clearly trying to look stern. “Happy New Year to you both. Your father’s got the potion waiting on the table.”

“What potion?” said James weakly, knowing there was no chance he sounded innocent but striving for it anyway.

“ _Please_ , James,” Euphemia said.

The boys slunk towards the dining room, exchanging meaningful glances. Fleamont was, mercifully, not inside to watch them guzzle down the potion.

“I can’t believe we’re going to be drinking again tonight,” Sirius said.

“Yes, you can,” said James. “We’ll enjoy it too.”

Sirius considered this. “Yeah, you’re right. I can.”

* * *

_ii. Girls Just Wanna Have Fun_

“Now that I think about it, it’s so counterintuitive to have us meet at my house and then go to Evan’s,” Mary said, fluffing her hair and staring at her reflection. “You’ve travelled basically the length of Britain, and back again.”

“It’s not counterintuitive at all,” said Doe. “You’ve got the best makeup.”

Mary beamed. Her bedroom was a terrific mess at that moment, with clothes and hairpins and various accessories strewn across the bed and the floor. She’d have to tidy up before they left, but she was already wondering if she could somehow talk Germaine’s sister Abigail into doing it for her magically. Abigail was currently in the Macdonalds’ sitting room, talking to Mary’s mother about gardening.

Thank goodness they had a common interest, Mary thought, or the many, many occasions on which the girls made Abigail Apparate them around would have become very tiresome indeed. As it happened Abigail’s presence reassured Ruolan Macdonald a great deal, even though Germaine’s sister was only dropping them off at Evan’s door and no further.

“Will there be drinking, do you think?” Ruolan had asked, her eyes narrowed.

Abigail had smiled ruefully. “A little, Mrs. Macdonald — we come of age at seventeen, you see, so some of the girls’ friends are already allowed to drink.”

This had been a better answer than any baldfaced lie. Ruolan nodded. “A little is only to be expected. I know my Mary’s no saint, but she’s got her head on right.”

Wisely, Abigail did not respond to this.

Upstairs, the girls were putting the finishing touches on their outfits. Germaine had borrowed a pair of Mary’s boots and stood two inches taller than usual. Doe was humming to herself as she applied her lip gloss. Mary was squinting in the mirror, wondering if something was missing or if she was finally ready. Lily, restless, was studying the rows of bottles and brushes on Mary’s dresser; she brushed a familiar one with a finger.

“Is this any good?” she asked, holding up the Sleekeazy’s.

“What?” Mary gave her a cursory look before turning back to her reflection. “Oh, yes. My mum’s got a fiendishly strict haircare routine, but even she admits the potion doesn’t mess with my hair. You shouldn’t use too much, Lily, or it’ll weigh you down, I think.” 

Lily hurriedly replaced the bottle. Perhaps she was more old-fashioned about magic than she’d thought — she was more wary of hair potions than a newfangled shampoo at the chemist’s. 

“Another time,” she said, mostly to herself.

“Are we ready?” said Germaine. “My feet hurt.”

“You’re the one who wanted to wear them,” Mary retorted.

“Well, let’s leave before I regret it.”

The four of them trooped downstairs in a cloud of perfume. Abigail rose to her feet, studying their bare shoulders and bellbottoms with a critical eye; Ruolan, on the other hand, smiled widely at them all.

“Aren’t you going to be cold?” Abigail said. Germaine opened her mouth, but before she could argue, Mary’s mother was gathering them all into a crowded hug. 

“What beautiful young ladies you’ve grown into,” she pronounced, releasing them. “Go on, go on, you don’t want to be late.”

Glowing at her praise, they stepped into the cool January night, Abigail in tow. 

“Two at a time,” she told them, taking Doe and Germaine by the hands and vanishing with a loud _crack!_

Left in the garden, Lily tried to peer at the flowerbeds. Mary was clutching a stack of records, having learned from last time. She paused in rifling through them, glancing at her friend. 

“Dreamboat Dex is going to be there, isn’t he?”

Lily looked up, laughing. “Don’t call him that. And yes, he is.”

“Did he say anything about tonight?” 

Mary was avoiding Lily’s gaze, which made her suspicious. She squinted at her friend. “Say _what_ about tonight?”

“Oh, never mind.”

Lily wanted to quiz her further, but Abigail reappeared at that very moment, extending a hand to each of the girls. 

“I can’t wait until I learn how to Apparate,” Lily said, sighing.

“And be constantly nauseated? No, thanks,” snorted Mary.

“Ready when you are,” Abigail said pointedly, and the other two shut up.

Once the dizziness of Apparition had faded, Lily opened her eyes. They were standing outside a large manor house. Colourful lights streamed through the ground level, and music and voices could be heard through the open windows. Germaine and Doe were waiting on the doorstep.

“I think I ought to come inside. Just have a look around,” said Abigail, arms crossed over her chest.

“Absolutely not!” Germaine said, indignant. “You know where we are, don’t you? And I thought you said you knew Mr. Wronecki from the Ministry. You’ve got plenty of emergency contacts — that you won’t need to use, of course, because we’re going to be perfectly _fine_.”

This was as close as any of them wanted to get to the Hogsmeade attack. They had arrived at an unspoken agreement to try and enjoy themselves, as Lily had said they ought to. Besides, the _Daily Prophet_ had reported that Aurors already had leads on who had cast the Dark Mark that night. And what good was it to sit at home and worry about things they could not change? 

Abigail had pursed her lips, but apparently thought better than to argue. 

“Go on, have fun, then. And as for getting home—”

“I already told you,” said Germaine, “Marissa Beasley is Apparating people to her house, and we can Floo from there.”

“I still don’t see why you can’t Floo from here—”

“Evan said his fireplace isn’t working.” Germaine was now speaking through gritted teeth. “Although I wish it were, because then you wouldn’t have had to drop us off!”

Abigail shot her a glare. “A little gratitude would be nice, Germaine.” But she stepped away, and disappeared once more.

“For God’s sake.” Germaine reached for the handle on the front door, but Doe batted her hand away.

“Not yet. We need to be in pairs all night, got it?”

Mary made a face. “Whatever for? I can’t snog anyone if I’m holding your hand, _Dork-ass_.”

“Shut up, Mary. It’s so we can look out for each other, and make sure no one does anything stupid and everyone’s doing all right. We don’t have to be attached at the hip,” she added, seeing Mary’s expression. “We can check in on each other every once in a while. That’s all.”

“I think it’s a good idea,” said Lily, which earned her a smile.

“You would,” Mary said. “But I don’t want to catch you and Dreamboat Dex getting hot and heavy.”

“What are the pairs?” Germaine cut in. She was looking at Mary with apprehension.

Doe thought for a moment. “Nose goes.” She pressed a finger to her nose, and Germaine immediately followed suit.

“What?” said Lily belatedly, touching her own nose. “What was that for?”

“You lose,” Germaine informed her. “You’re Mary’s pair.”

Mary scoffed. “That’s just rude, you two—”

Her complaints were immediately drowned out by the noise of the party; Germaine had lost patience and pushed open the door. It was in full swing, it seemed. The girls followed the sounds through the hall into a large sitting room of sorts. Furniture had been pushed to the walls to make a dance floor, and people were, in fact, dancing (to Mary’s great relief). The four of them hung in the doorway for just a moment — and then each went her own way, the promise of an exciting night blotting out everything else for now.

James tossed Sirius a can of beer. “Wizard staff,” he said by way of explanation. 

Sirius groaned. “Beer fucking sucks.” But he would not say no to a challenge, and so he cracked the can open and began to drink.

Belatedly, James realised the problem with this game when it was played outside of Hogwarts. Evan was seventeen, so underage magic in his house shouldn’t draw notice. But what if _everyone_ thought like him, and there was simply too much magic use for the Ministry to ignore? Or...surely the Ministry had bigger things to worry about at present.

Wait, why was he thinking about this, anyway?

“You all right?” Sirius said, squinting at him.

“Oh, yeah.” James took a swig of his beer. “Wondering if I should spell my cans together in order to beat you.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “You’re not going to beat me. And maybe you can use Spellotape.”

“Spellotape?” James spluttered. “What the— Who just carries around Spellotape?”

“Don’t take that tone with your elders, James,” said Sirius sagely. 

James proceeded to try and knock his can from his hand. He had begun to lose interest in this pursuit when Peter appeared, looking out of breath and extremely nervous.

“I’ve really done it now,” he said.

James exchanged a look with Sirius, grabbing his second can of beer and very pointedly fastening it to the first with a muttered charm. 

“What’ve you done, Pete?” 

Peter groaned. “Well, I was with Florence Quaille—”

“ _With_?” repeated Sirius gleefully. 

“Snogging Florence Quaille,” said Peter, going red.

“Mate, I thought that didn’t go so well last time,” James said, chuckling. “When was that, fourth year?”

He hadn’t thought it possible for Peter to get any redder, but he did. 

“Yes — well — never mind that! I left her and walked right into the Duckling, and _she_ was sort of making eyes at me, but then Florence got all angry and flounced past, and I’ve got no bloody idea what happened!”

James and Sirius roared with laughter.

Peter scowled. “Yeah, yeah, laugh all you like. I was only snogging her, wasn’t I? I didn’t think that was a binding sort of commitment, and I hadn’t even _done_ anything with the Duckling—”

“Here, who came up with that nickname?” James broke in, remembering Remus’s chastisement.

“Oh — me,” said Peter, looking a bit taken aback.

For a moment the boys stopped laughing, searching the crowd for the girl in question.

“Is it because she’s sort of...pouty?” Sirius said, frowning. “ _Duckling_ ’s a stretch, I think. She’s fit.”

Peter was blinking hard at the crowd. “God, you’re right, yeah, I didn’t even see the pout. No — it’s because she and Florence are friends. You know, Cecily Sprucklin, Florence Quaille… Quail, duckling.”

Perhaps it was the colourful lights, but James could not spot her amidst the dancing students no matter how hard he tried. This explanation was enough to divert him from his search; he stared at Peter, eyebrows rising.

“That’s funny, actually,” James said. “Quail and duckling. Well — she probably doesn’t think so.”

Peter looked immensely pleased. “Yeah? I mean, she likely hates it, true. But it’s like you said, Padfoot. She _is_ pretty. It’s obviously not a crack about her looks.”

Sirius snorted. “Whatever you say, mate.”

But this was apparently enough to reassure Peter, whose nervousness slipped away. He looked from James to Sirius, finally noticing the beer can towers they’d begun to build.

“Are you playing wizard staff? Can I join?”

“If you want to start two cans behind, sure.” Sirius handed him an unopened beer. “If the Duckling comes to try and snog you again, though, you might want to put it down and forfeit.”

There really were a lot of sixth and seventh years at this party, thought Lily as she moved through the room. Marissa Beasley smiled and waved at her; Chris Townes was dancing with one girl and locking eyes with another; Stephen Fawcett’s loud voice could almost be heard over the music as he regaled a small crowd with some dramatic story. Some fifth years too; she recognised Quentin Kravitz, Gryffindor’s second-string Chaser, who gave her a lopsided grin. The Slytherin presence overall was noticeably low. Lily did not like to generalise about a whole house, but she could not deny the fact that this was reassuring. 

She stood scanning the partygoers, feeling rather foolish but unsure how else to look for Dex. Of course, _he_ found _her_ first, appearing at her side and scaring her half out of her wits by laying a hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, sorry to startle you,” he said, grinning. “Fancy a drink?”

“Yes,” said Lily, “but first—” She leaned into him and gave him a long, lingering kiss. His arms encircled her, and she really, truly forgot, for a moment, that they were in a crowded room full of people they both knew. 

“Well,” Dex said, pulling away and laughing a little. His cheeks were pink, Lily noticed, which made her smile. “Happy New Year, I suppose.”

“I’m just starting us off right. Lead me to the drinks.”

He took her hand and they wound their way through the crowd. Lily thought her heart was going at an alarming rate. It thudded in time to the music, squeezing in a sort of panicked, excited way when Dex glanced over his shoulder at her — which was often. Finally they paused at a table in the corner of the room that was functioning as a bar of sorts. Dex was telling her that he was staying the night in one of Evan’s guest bedrooms — _multiple guest bedrooms_ , she marvelled, delighted by the idea. At least that explained the use of all this space. Some of it was for visitors. 

“Firewhisky?” Dex said.

Lily hesitated briefly. She’d only snuck sips of the drink at Quidditch afterparties and the like; other than the odd glass of cheap wine her mother sometimes induced her to share, she was inexperienced in the realm of alcohol. Dex noticed her uncertainty and reached for Butterbeer instead.

“Just a little,” Lily blurted out, forestalling him. 

“You sure?”

“Yes. I’m not even a month off seventeen, anyway.” This was hardly the reason for her worry, but she kept that to herself. 

Dex poured her the barest thimbleful of Firewhisky, which made her laugh. He served himself a measure only slightly larger than hers — “I prefer to be high on life,” he said, with a self-deprecating grin — and they bumped their cups together before drinking. Lily had been prepared for the Firewhisky to burn on the way down, but she winced nevertheless at the taste. Once the heat of the alcohol had given way to pleasant spice, she gave Dex a wide, happy smile. 

“How do you feel about being high on dancing?” she said.

He grinned. “Positively.”

Setting down her empty cup, Lily laced her fingers with his and pulled him towards the dance floor.

Doe did not think she was an introvert and nights like this reminded her why. A bit of quiet was nice, but to see the shining, laughing faces of her classmates was even nicer. The energy of it all had thoroughly dimmed the cloud that had hung over her since reading about the Hogsmeade attack. It was a little like her dad singing “Auld Lang Syne,” she thought: innocent, despite the distinct smell of alcohol. It was a bit of earnest fun. 

She herself was one and a half cups of Firewhisky in and happily mellow. She’d had shouted conversations with Amelia Bones, who, it turned out, _did_ know how to loosen up, and Peter Pettigrew, who was ruddy-cheeked and more at ease than she’d ever seen him before. She supposed it was time to hunt down Germaine and make sure her pair for the night was doing all right, but every time she excused herself from a clump of people she was distracted by someone else again.

Catching sight of Germaine’s light hair, she swerved to her right without looking, and walked right into—

“Michael!” she exclaimed, with more enthusiasm than she’d ever greeted him before.

He’d grabbed her shoulder to steady her; he was laughing, probably because her voice had risen about three octaves over the two syllables of his name.

“Good to see you, Doe.” He gave her a quick, tight hug; when he’d released her, she spotted the boy he’d been talking to.

“Oh, hello, Chris. You look unhappy.” This was the kind of thing, verging on tactless, that she never would have said sober, but Doe did not think twice about the remark at present.

Chris Townes lifted his cup in her direction, but the corners of his mouth were firmly turned downwards.

“You don’t want me to retell my sob story,” he said, in a manner that suggested he would _really_ like to retell it.

Dorcas thought that his appeal dissipated when he was in a sulk, but Michael seemed to have been hearing him out. She decided she ought to be magnanimous as well.

“No, that’s all right, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“I was just telling Mike about Cecily Sprucklin,” Chris said morosely.

Doe was momentarily distracted by _Mike_ , and the grimacing reaction that the nickname prompted in Michael. She was stifling laughter as she said, “Sorry, who?”

Chris sighed. “The Duckling.”

“Don’t call her that,” Doe and Michael said at the same time, then looked at each other, startled.

“You were the one who asked!” protested Chris.

Doe frowned. “I asked because I didn’t hear you, not because I wanted you to call her names.”

He only rolled his eyes in response. Yes, he really _was_ unattractive when he was in a bad mood, thought Dorcas.

“I came with Florence — Quaille,” he added, with a look that suggested he was clarifying for Doe’s benefit. “I mean, not like _that_ , she and I have been friends for ages…” 

Dorcas nodded; this much she knew, even having consumed a bit of Firewhisky. Chris and Florence were both sixth-year Hufflepuffs. Via Mary, Doe was aware that Chris and Amelia Bones had gone together back in fourth year, but she hadn’t heard of Chris getting involved with Cecily — also a Hufflepuff — or Florence. 

“So, you came with Florence,” she prompted. “Go on.”

“Yeah, ’cept she and Cecily have some weird, I don’t even know what it is. A competition?” Chris shook his head, exasperated. “I don’t want to get in the middle of that.”

Michael still looked amused. “Aren’t Cecily and Florence mates, though?”

Both boys turned to Doe, who laughed and put her hands up. “Don’t look at me. I haven’t the faintest idea if they are or aren’t. I’m not Mary.”

Chris made a disgruntled sound. “Yeah, well. I’m going to go talk to some _non_ -Hufflepuff girls.” With that, he stalked off, leaving Michael and Doe alone.

She watched him go, a touch offended. “What am I, a non-Hufflepuff tree?”

Michael spluttered with laughter. “I don’t think he meant _talking_ , Dorcas.”

An intriguing possibility. Doe tapped her chin. “You think so? Am I not worth ‘talking’ to, then?” She nearly smacked Michael in the face with her air-quotes. 

He could hardly speak for laughing now. “How much, exactly, have you had to drink?”

“Not that much,” she protested, giving him a gentle shove. “Stop laughing at me!”

“You’ve got terrible tolerance,” said Michael, shoving her back.

“Not true!”

“Really?” He leaned close; Dorcas frowned, trying to hear him properly, and then he said, “ _For auld lang syne, my dear_ —”

Doe squawked, laughing, and pushed him away. “It’s not a siren call, _Mike_ , I’m not going to burst into song just because I’ve had a little Firewhisky—”

He groaned. “Please don’t call me Mike. Chris keeps forgetting every time I tell him—”

“I’ll drop the Mike thing if you tell me about Katie.” Doe gave him a meaningful look. “Well? What _happened?”_

Michael’s grin faded a little. Doe wondered if she shouldn’t have brought it up — but it was all part of getting over her, wasn’t it? And he himself had written to her about it.

“Nothing, she cornered me after dessert and said something about how she’d missed me.” He rolled his eyes. “More like the other bloke dropped her.”

“Did he!” 

“Not that I know for certain, but that’s what I think, yeah.”

Doe scrunched up her face in sympathy. “God, I’m sorry. Jokes aside, she just sounds…” She grappled for a word that felt adequately disparaging but _also_ not too rude, considering Michael had dated her and been hung up on her afterwards. “She just sounds not nice.”

Michael laughed. “She isn’t, yeah. I mean, took me until this to realise, but…”

“Better late than never,” Doe pronounced. “That’s why you should find a rebound. A proper one, not Mary.”

He laughed again at this, though she couldn’t fathom why. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Mary held a teetering stack of empty cups in her hand, balancing it as she spoke. 

“So, we’ve got to fill a bunch of these with as disgusting a combination of alcohol as we can find,” she said to the rapt group of seventh years — chiefly boys — around her. “Just a splash of everything, mind. _One_ cup, the very last one, is the one we fill to the brim. Come on, step to it.” She began unstacking the cups, setting them at the centre of a long table Evan had approved for this purpose.

She was pleased to note that the boys immediately went to work, sloppily pouring various mud-coloured liquors into the cups she’d laid out. Then, still holding the two cups she’d saved, she began to search for something she could Transfigure into balls. After a brief hunt, Mary produced two crushed beer cans with the triumph of a woman who’d struck gold. The cans soon became makeshift table tennis balls. She tested their bounce until she was satisfied, then returned to the table.

“Where’s the bitch cup!” she shouted. The cup in question — the one right in the middle, the cup that ought to have been the worst concoction — was only halfway full. “Come on, Evan, don’t you have something else to put in it? Something awful and undrinkable?”

Evan laughed. “I don’t know, do we, Dearborn?”

Doc seemed to appear right out of thin air, his smile thin and crooked and enough to make Mary’s heart stutter. She told herself to stop being stupid. 

“As requested,” Doc said, producing a jug of mysterious liquid that must have been his own brew. He filled the bitch cup to the brim. “Is that up to your exacting standards?”

With a start, Mary realised he was speaking to her. “Oh — yeah, that’ll do.” 

He disappeared once more; thrown, she forgot for a moment that people were still waiting for her to explain the rest of the rules. 

“So, what do we do with the balls?” Marissa Beasley said, her eyes bright with excitement.

Mary did not like the sour twist in her stomach at the sight of the other girl. She did not need to take out her problems on Marissa, she reminded herself. If she was going to be upset at anyone, it ought to be Doc himself. 

“It works like this—” Mary set one cup down in front of herself, then put the other before Marissa, who was on her left. “You’ve got to bounce the ball into the cup.” She demonstrated, landing it in one. Then she pushed the cup over to her right. “Isobel, now you go, and you pass it on. Marissa, once you get it you pass to me. And if I get it before Isobel does, I stack her—” Mary dropped Marissa’s cup into Isobel’s. “She passes on both those cups now, and she has to drink one of the punishment cups. Oh, and if you get the ball into the cup on your first go, you can move it anywhere around the table. So be ready at all times!”

Isobel was rubbing her hands together with glee. “Merlin, where’d you learn this?”

Mary beamed. “I’ve got a cousin who goes to Muggle university in Glasgow. He’s probably learned more drinking games than anything else, but it’s more useful to me than his engineering degree, so I’m not complaining.”

A sizeable group had clustered around the table over the course of her instructions; she glanced around at them with satisfaction, although — a twinge — Doc had not come back. 

“All right, if everyone’s ready—” Mary broke off, frowning. “Hang on, is that the White Album?”

“The what album?” said Evan.

A grin was spreading across Mary’s face. _She_ hadn’t brought it, and _she_ certainly hadn’t put it on, which meant someone else here had exceptional taste. And it was definitely the White Album: that was the telltale riff, so it was either “Birthday” or— “ _I’m back in the U.S.S.R._ ,” Paul McCartney sang, his rich, blustering voice audible over the party chatter. She was swaying to the beat automatically, the game all but forgotten.

“I’m so glad you invested in some good music, Evan,” said Mary blissfully. 

He laughed, though he looked rather confused. Mary was about to press the point when the ball was snatched right out of her hand. 

“How about we make things a touch more complicated?” It was Sirius, with what looked like a tower of beer cans tucked under an arm. “Give the other one here, Park.” He set both balls down on the table and, after a moment of intense thought, waved his wand over them. 

“What did you do?” Mary said, her eyes narrowed.

“A fun little modification,” said Sirius innocently. “Get us started, why don’t you?”

Still watching him suspiciously, Mary gave Marissa her cup back and took Isobel’s. The ball felt cool and normal in her fist. 

“On the count of three—” 

She counted down, then bounced her ball perfectly into her cup once more. Satisfied, Mary passed the cup to Isobel and waited for Marissa to finish. The rest of the table was hooting and jeering.

“It’s harder than it looks, honest,” said Marissa, her tongue stuck out in concentration as she aimed. 

All of a sudden, Isobel shrieked. She’d tried to bounce her ball into the cup, but in the process it had turned into a flopping goldfish, gasping for breath on the table’s surface. Sirius was howling with laughter.

“I think that counts as animal abuse,” Isobel said, glaring at him. The goldfish abruptly changed back into a ball, though, and she seized it just as Marissa passed _her_ cup to Mary. 

“If mine turns into a fish too, Black, I’ll strangle you,” Mary warned.

“Dear Prudence” came on, startling Lily at the transition. Silly; she’d listened to it hundreds of times in her room — but then again, she’d never danced to “Back in the U.S.S.R.” with a boy’s hands on her hips. Her boyfriend’s, no less. She thought she was far too sober for a slow song, so she begged a rest, and Dex acquiesced. 

“Now’s a good time to tell you,” said Dex, “I got you a New Year’s present.”

Lily laughed, surprised. “My birthday’s weeks away.”

“I said _New Year’s_ present—”

“No, I know what you said. I just meant, you’re going to have to give me another present soon anyway.”

Dex rolled his eyes. “Maybe I like giving you presents.”

This, funnily enough, made her blush. “Where’s the present?”

“Upstairs, in the guest bedroom.”

“Is that a line?” Lily said, giggling.

Dex blushed just as she had. “Not unless you want it to be one.”

She took his hand, her few mouthfuls of Firewhisky still sparking little fires in her chest. “I want my gift.”

The music and laughter from the party echoed through the empty hallway and even up the wide, sweeping double staircase, but it was eerily quiet otherwise. As though they’d gone off to visit the neighbours, thought Lily, and the party was, in fact, taking place next door. Dex led her up the stairs and down another corridor. The walls were actually lined with _paintings_ , big framed ones like something out of a museum. 

“Gosh, I didn’t know Evan’s parents collected art,” she said, her eyes wide as she took it all in.

Dex blinked, first at her and then at the walls. “Oh — you know, you come here enough, you almost forget it’s there.”

She didn’t think she could possibly forget. Most of the painting’s inhabitants were asleep, though some muttered and dozed fitfully as she and Dex passed by. In one, a beautiful pastoral scene, a squat little pony looked up at them, blinking sleepily. Lily realised she was grinning; she probably looked demented, but she was too awed to care. 

At last they arrived at the guest bedroom that was Dex’s for the night. It was dark, but she could still make out the fine, embroidered bedspread, the flowers in a little vase on the nightstand, the cushioned window seat. It looked like a fancy hotel room, like something she’d see on the telly. Dex’s trunk leaned against one wall, just about the only sign that the room was occupied.

“You’re terribly neat,” Lily observed.

Dex laughed sheepishly. “The Wroneckis’ house-elves insist on cleaning up after us. It’s hard to get used to — more so than the paintings.”

 _House-elves_. Lily had never been to a place with house-elves, other than Hogwarts. She frowned momentarily. But her eyes snagged on his trunk once more.

“You’re staying until we leave for Hogwarts?”

“Yeah, since it’s our last Christmas hols and all that some of us blokes are here for a few days.” His smile faded, giving way to thoughtfulness. “Strange to think about, honestly. I’m jealous of you, Lily, since you’ve got another year still.”

Lily curled up on the window seat. Not a trace of the outside chill seeped through the window; it must have been magic. She pressed a hand to the glass, considering his words. 

“Yes,” she said after a moment, “I’m glad I have another year too. Although,” she added hurriedly, “I’ll be sad to see you go.” 

This was the most they’d ever really talked about — _the future._ What would happen when Dex left Hogwarts, possibly for culinary school in France? Before Lily could dwell on this point too much, Dex was reaching for something on the desk in the corner. He handed it to her, sitting down next to her.

It was a little plate, and a little silver spoon, and on the plate sat a small round cake. Lily could see it well enough by the moonlight filtering through the window. Its top was dusted with powdered sugar, but by some clever trick the sugar silhouetted the distinct shape of a flower.

“It’s a lily,” she said, awed.

“It is.” Dex’s smile was tinged with nervousness. “Go on, try it.”

Lily cut into the cake with the spoon. Aside from the sugar, there was no decoration of any kind on it — no icing, and the inside looked to be plain vanilla sponge. But there was a tense anticipation on Dex’s face. Surely this wasn’t just some kind of taste test for the perfect vanilla sponge? Not that there was anything wrong with vanilla, it was just... _vanilla_. The safe choice. She hoped she would not have to feign enthusiasm. 

Careful not to spill any crumbs, she put the first spoonful into her mouth.

“Oh!” Lily blinked at him. “But it looks like — it looks like vanilla!”

Dex was grinning now. “D’you like it?”

She _did_ : appearance aside, it tasted like buttery chocolate, rich and smooth, with a hint of peppermint underneath. Lily nodded, scooping herself a second bite. 

“That’s really brilliant. To have it look one way and taste another—” She paused to eat the next spoonful. Her eyes widened once more. 

“Merlin, the look on your face,” Dex said, laughing. “I’m so relieved. Honestly, I thought it wasn’t going to work.”

Lily swallowed — this mouthful had been a light earl grey, as if it had been spiced with tea leaves. 

“Relieved! You should be ecstatic! It’s like Every Flavour Beans in a cake, it’s—” Lily set the plate down between them so she did not knock it over in her enthusiasm. “How did you do it? Are the flavours baked in the cake somehow, or is it some sort of spell that just mimics the taste in my brain?” Her mind whirled at the possibility. 

“A baker never tells,” said Dex, leaning back with a look of smug satisfaction.

Lily swatted him on the arm, then picked the plate up again. “I’ll get it out of you eventually.”

“You can try.”

“I will.”

For a moment she was quietly eating her cake, just looking at him. And he was looking at her, the silvery moonlight softening his smile. Lily’s heart began to thud dramatically once more. 

Then Dex pointed out the window. “You know what that constellation’s called?”

Lily peered at the stars he was pointing at, trying desperately to remember O.W.L.-level Astronomy. “Orion’s Belt?”

He gave her a bemused look. “What shape do you think a belt is, exactly?”

“Oh, stop it. _You_ tell me what that constellation is, if you know.”

“Of course I know.” Dex squinted at the glass. “It’s...the…”

“The?” Lily prompted.

“The...satyr’s...lute?”

Lily snorted a laugh. “Stick to baking, Fortescue.”

“I will,” he said, closing the distance between them and pressing his lips to hers.

* * *

_iii. Long Legged Girl (With the Short Dress On)_

Everyone around the table was watching. Germaine gave a dismissive wave of her hand. 

“Winning. Losing. It’s all a matter of perspective.”

“Bollocks,” said Sirius. He was still holding the cup out for her. “That had better not be how you go into the next Quidditch match.”

“Just drink the bitch cup,” Evan said. “We know you’re stalling, King.”

“I am _not_ stalling,” Germaine began.

“Drink it,” Bert Mallory said, and soon the entire table was chanting _drink it, drink it!_

“I’m doing it, I’m doing it!” Germaine groaned, taking the cup from Sirius to widespread cheers. She grimaced at the cup’s contents, which, to be fair, did look rather like most alcoholic drinks. All she had to do was pretend it was whiskey, or something. Wasn’t whiskey what classy old men drank? Or port. Yes, she could pretend she were Professor Dumbledore, swilling some port on a Saturday evening. With one last deep breath, Germaine put the cup to her mouth.

She did not set it down until she’d drunk it all, which made everyone cheer louder than ever. Germaine coughed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and groaned once more.

“Honestly, I respect that,” Sirius said, patting her shoulder. “I respect that and I salute you.”

“Means a lot,” croaked Germaine. “I need some water.”

Mary was at her side in an instant. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Perfectly fine. I just drank the most disgusting thing known to mankind, but I’m fine.” She pulled a face, which did seem to help. It was like swearing when you stubbed a toe.

“I’ll come with you,” Mary said.

But Germaine waved her off. “Really, I’ll be all right. Isn’t this your record?”

“Well, er—” Mary glanced at the player, from which “Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy” was currently playing. A guilty, torn look came over her.

“Enjoy the song, Mare. I’ll walk it off.”

Germaine wobbled her way to the drinks table, groping for the big jug of water. To her dismay, it was empty. Still clutching the bitch cup in her hand, she wandered out of the sitting room. The kitchen had to be somewhere nearby — she’d seen Evan and his mates flit in and out of the room with fresh bottles. She put one hand to the wall, not because she was unsteady on her feet, no, not at all — but just in case she needed it. Evan’s house _was_ bloody big, though. What if she was wandering around for half the night?

She needn’t have worried; Amelia Bones was striding up the hallway, two unopened bottles of Firewhisky pressed incongruously to her chest.

“Are you coming from the kitchen?” Germaine said.

“There’s two,” said Amelia, which did not answer the question at all. In fact, it made things more complicated.

The way forward was to uncomplicate things, Germaine thought, and was very proud of herself for this thought. “I just need water.”

Amelia nodded, understanding seeming to dawn on her. “You don’t need the one with the house elves, then. Down the hall, second door on the left.”

Relieved, Germaine trotted off in that direction, not thinking much of what the other girl had said. The bitch cup wasn’t the only punishment cup she’d drunk out of that night, and the horrible malty combination of whatever weird beers Evan had scrounged up for the game left a scratchy aftertaste in her throat. Germaine loved Mary dearly, but she wished her friend would suggest less burdensome games. She was a Seeker, after all; Germaine was used to catching small balls, not throwing them, and certainly not bouncing them into cups. 

Not to mention her size! She’d been the smallest person playing by far; Stephen Fawcett and Colin Rollins were nearly a foot taller than her, and Bert Mallory often bragged about bench-pressing a number Germaine guessed was her own weight. It was all stacked against her. She would ask Abigail for some wizard drinking games, she resolved, and make sure they were the sort she could win at. Although… one wondered what sort of drinking games her sister knew.

She was about to duck into the door Amelia had pointed out when she heard voices coming from it — _no_ , she realised, horrorstruck, not just any voices. They were those flirty sorts of giggles that could sometimes be heard emanating from broom cupboards at school, and they never boded well. Germaine crouched there by the kitchen doorway in a brief fit of indecision. 

“I didn’t know you could be fun,” a boy said, his tone light and teasing.

Germaine relaxed a little. That was Chris Townes, and she didn’t much care what _he_ thought of her. And he was always going around with a new girl, wasn’t he? The only thing that gave her pause — that stopped her from walking right in without a care — was that this girl might be Mary, and, her own feelings about Chris aside, Germaine did not want to get in her friend’s way. Poor Mary, what if she were upset about Doc and trying to ignore her crush by snogging Chris? A terrible choice, but Germaine couldn’t fault her for it. She hung back a moment longer—

“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” came the reply, and the voice was familiar, but it was _not_ Mary’s. It was more singsong than Germaine had ever heard it, but it was unmistakably Emmeline Vance’s. 

Germaine peered around the doorframe, her stomach sinking. Emmeline and Chris were standing uncomfortably close, alone in the kitchen. Suddenly Germaine did not want to get water; she wanted to get _out_. 

Turning on her heel, she hurried back to the party. Her stomach was in knots. The dryness in the back of her mouth had nothing to do with the bitch cup. The walk to the sitting room felt like the longest thirty seconds of Germaine’s life — because she knew, finally, why she liked spending time with Emmeline so much, and why she was so worried what the other girl thought of her. But it didn’t matter, did it? It didn’t matter that Germaine fancied her...sort of friend. Because Emmeline was too busy flirting with Chris Townes, of all people. 

Miraculously, Dorcas was right by the door, talking to Michael Meadowes. Germaine grabbed her by the elbow, not caring that she was interrupting their conversation. 

“Ouch, Germaine—” Doe took one look at her expression, and her annoyance softened to worry. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine,” said Germaine. “I want to go home.”

Doe frowned, glancing at Michael, and then steered her away from him. 

“Did you have too much to drink? Do you feel sick?”

Germaine shook her head forcefully — although, that _did_ make her feel a bit sick. “I just — want to go home.”

“Okay — okay, don’t worry—” Dorcas turned back to Michael, who looked similarly concerned. “I’m going to take Germaine home. Could you tell Mary we’ve gone?”

Michael nodded. “Of course. Do you need me to come with you?”

Germaine felt a pang of guilt. “Please don’t worry. Actually—” She looked at Doe. “You stay too. I can take the Knight Bus.”

Doe was already shaking her head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Germaine, you shouldn’t go _alone_. Right, Michael?”

“Definitely not,” Michael said. 

“I don’t want to ruin your night—”

“You’re not ruining anything!” Dorcas squeezed her fingers. 

But Germaine pulled her hand away and tried on a smile. “I’ll ask Marissa to let me use her fireplace. I can just Floo home, and that way no one has to go on the Knight Bus.”

“Germaine—”

She was already backing away. “I’ll owl you tomorrow, first thing in the morning. Promise! Have fun, and don’t worry about me.” And with that, she pushed through the crowd, looking for Marissa Beasley and trying very hard not to think of Emmeline and Chris.

“You lost!” James crowed, pointing his staff — seven beer cans long at this point — at the table.

“What?” Sirius frowned, looking around. He groaned when he caught sight of his own staff, abandoned not five minutes ago on the table. “Oh, come the _fuck_ on. I had it on me the whole bloody game of — bounce the ball into the cup or whatever it’s called, and I put it down for _five_ seconds to give King the bitch cup—”

James was shaking his head throughout this little speech. “All I’m hearing is that you lost, mate.”

Sirius picked up his staff with a forlorn sigh. “Peter can still beat you.”

James gave him a look of disbelief.

“All right, not likely. Fine. Fine!” Sirius threw his hands up. “You win, then. I’m going to take a smoke break. Coming?”

James grinned, resting his staff against his shoulder like a Buckingham Palace guard. “Nah, I don’t smoke.”

“Fine. I’ll go chat up—” Sirius scanned the crowd “—Annie Markham.”

“Be my guest,” James said. He did not mind the solitude. He leaned back against a wall, searching the dancers for Peter. His friend danced like a possessed cat, and so should not have been difficult to spot. But he wasn’t trying particularly hard. All those beers had turned James’s brain to a sea of happy numbness. He wasn’t much bothered by anything. 

“So,” said a voice at his shoulder. “You won your game?”

Surprised, James moved his wizard staff out of the way to peer at the girl who was leaning against the wall beside him. She had a fringe, and long wavy dark hair — and her mouth was pursed into a little pout. Cecily Sprucklin, he realised; he had almost not recognised her with her hair free of its signature plaits. 

“Oh, hello, Cecily,” said James, privately very pleased that he hadn’t accidentally called her the Duckling to her face. “I did win, yeah.”

“Good,” she said, with a brisk nod. “I only snog winners.”

Cecily was pretty, sure, but that was a funny sort of come-on. James spluttered out an incredulous laugh. She looked at him, apparently dead serious. 

He managed to pull himself together. “We can go somewhere quieter.” 

She smiled, a toothy, sweet expression that made him grin back instinctively. This, James thought, worked far better on him than the clinical appraisal she’d been giving him before. Not that he’d planned on saying no to that, either. 

“Come on,” Cecily said, and he followed her away from the music.

Someone had put Celestina Warbeck on. Mary paced the room restlessly, wondering how soon was too soon to go and change it. She held a half-full cup of Butterbeer in one hand, and was sipping from it as she walked — she’d had enough to drink, she judged, but switching to water felt like a cop-out, even though it was nearing midnight. Some of the partygoers had already left; the ones who remained were mostly Gryffindors and seventh years, people who knew Evan well enough that the late hour did not bother them.

Mary’s thoughts turned to Germaine, who’d apparently bolted some time back. Marissa Beasley had said she’d safely seen her home. Mary could only hope it hadn’t been because of the bitch cup. 

Part of her wondered if she ought to demand Marissa take her to a fireplace she could Floo from. But she had no idea what she had to say to get herself to Germaine’s house — she had very little experience Flooing at all. Whatever it was that had happened, Mary could find out tomorrow, when she was sober and therefore far better equipped to wring the truth from her friend. Sometimes Germaine got like this — quiet, melancholy, even. The others knew when they had to just let her alone. Perhaps tonight was simply one of those nights, and Germaine would be right as rain the next morning.

Mary spun to face the record player. She’d had enough Warbeck.

But someone else was already changing the record. A voice that was unmistakably Elvis Presley replaced Celestina Warbeck, and that was unmistakably Doc Dearborn by the player, gazing at it with a look of profound satisfaction. 

“Dearborn!” Mary stalked up to him, perching on the arm of a nearby chair. He looked down at her, eyebrows raised. “Did you go and research Muggle music?”

“Yeah,” he said, sounding a touch defensive. “I had a whole year to look into it, didn’t I? I didn’t want the party to go without music again.”

Mary pointed at the stack of records she’d hidden out of sight. “I brought those. For the same exact reason.”

Doc’s lips twitched into a smile. “How thoughtful of you.”

“It was really very selfish. I didn’t want to have to sing again.” 

She met his gaze, thinking of last year — and he was thinking of it too, she was certain. In return he gave her a knowing look, as if they shared a secret. The very idea made her smile; she fought to hide it. 

“That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one,” Doc said. “You’d love to sing again.”

Mary scoffed, but then erupted into giggles. “You chose well. The White Album was you too, wasn’t it?”

“It’s pretty damn good. This, too.” He looked down at _Almost in Love_. 

“Pretty good!” Mary repeated, delighted. “I’m going to count this as the first success of my shop.”

“Your shop?” Doc frowned. “You have a shop?”

“Not yet,” said Mary. “My _future_ shop. That’s the plan, anyway. It’ll be in Diagon Alley—”

“Expensive real estate,” he cut in.

“Shh, don’t interrupt.” Her voice took on a breathless excitement that it only did when she was very drunk, or discussing her grand plans — this was a little bit of both. “It’ll be on Diagon Alley, and it’ll sell Muggle _and_ magical records. Maybe other entertainment things too, I don’t know; comics? I have to ask my brother about that. Anyway, part of the problem is that wizards don’t _know_ anything about what Muggles do. Not just regular Muggle life — but Muggle _dreams_ , and what Muggles stay up at night thinking of, and what Muggles can _create_. Don’t you see? It’s art, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Doc echoed. He looked a bit stunned, Mary thought, as if she’d socked him in the face. This was an expression she was used to seeing on boys, only it was usually once she’d taken her top off.

“Plenty of magical people would love the Beatles, or Elvis. It’s a matter of changing your perspective. It’s all about— _Why_ are you staring at me?”

Because he was. Staring at her, that is. The record player was between them, but other than that, Mary realised, they were standing quite close together. Doc seemed to come to this realisation at the very same time. They moved towards each other simultaneously, without saying a word; Mary bumped her knee against the corner of the record player hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. Doc swore, steadying her by her waist. She inched around the player; he opened his mouth to speak. Before he could do something silly and unnecessary, like ask if her stupid knee needed tending to, Mary kissed him. 

The next morning, three of the girls woke up in their own beds. All four were groggy, hoarse, a little bit hungover. The day after a party — even and especially an enjoyable one — was always dreary, a dull return to normalcy. It was a bit like Cinderella on the morning after the ball, Lily thought. They groped for water, stumbled to brush their teeth, and sighed at their reflections in the mirror. Two more days, and they’d be together again, headed back to Hogwarts, about to learn just how much things had changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was written to "back in the u.s.s.r." and "second hand news" by fleetwood mac. i SO badly wanted "rumours" to be the album doc puts on in the last scene but it released in feb 1977... tragic. well, "a little less conversation" fits the doc and mary vibe too. also shoutout to one of my lovely rp partners who introduced me to the idea of hp characters playing wizard staff!
> 
> nothing like a good bit of normal teenage drama to offset real-life drama! i'm so excited to unravel all the things i've hinted at here. i wonder which of the girls wakes up in a bed that isn't her own...
> 
> i also really enjoyed finally bringing in/featuring more secondary chars. i imagine that more extroverted students than harry probably have a much wider friend circle. i struggle a LOT with hogwarts numbers — does the population work out to roughly 250, as the practical math from the books suggests (named chars), or is it 1000, like jkr says? i'm inclined to think it's somewhere in between and that the latter was just a number she spouted off... in any case, i'm going to take that wide range to mean i can be flexible with how many students i mention, HAHA. since i've had to cut (some) sirius angst, there will be more time and space for meddlesome minor characters!
> 
> since i already gave away the next chapter's title, i will drop a hint about the aforementioned platform kiss-on-cheek: both characters are named in this chapter, but do not interact directly. :-)
> 
> leave me a comment or a kudo or a COMMENT and let me know your theories about anything and everything in this chapter!
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	13. Missed Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: The friends attend Evan Wronecki's holiday party. Doe tells Michael to get a rebound. Mary and Doc kiss. Germaine sees Emmeline flirting with Chris Townes. The Dark Mark was cast above Hogsmeade over the holidays, and two individuals were found dead. Sirius, who's left home to live with the Potters for good, asks Regulus to bring him his cat.
> 
> NOW: It's the start of the new term! Mary witnesses an interesting exchange on the platform. Sirius is in a mood. James didn't sleep with Cecily Sprucklin. Germaine has an argument. Lily has an argument, too, but unlikely company makes hers a good train ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is late! Real life really took over...but I hope shippiness makes up for it. Leave me a COMMENT or a kudo! Also, content warning: there is a brief mention of implied/off-the-page animal abuse in this chapter.
> 
> I also wanted to say, once more, that I unequivocally do not support any of JKR's awful, transphobic Twitter sentiments. Trans lives matter, and if you agree with her and not me on this, my writing is not for you.

_i. Departure_

“For a magic school, they really do make things inconvenient,” Clyde Macdonald said.

The four Macdonalds were in the Leaky Cauldron’s dining room, having just polished off a hearty breakfast. The six-hour drive from Glasgow to London had been completed in stages over the course of the previous two days, much to Mary’s dismay and Andrew’s tremendous joy. But even her anxious parents could not dampen her spirits — not on the morning she was returning to Hogwarts.

“Aren’t you going to learn to, what’s it called, Apparate? This summer you can get us all to King’s Cross like that.” Ruolan snapped her fingers. 

“Sure, I expect I can take the test after my birthday.” Mary was not looking forward to the prospect of Apparition lessons or testing, but took comfort in the fact that she would only come of age in July, and so the examination was a long way off.

“But I want to visit Diagon Alley,” Andrew protested.

Mary laughed; her brother’s eagerness more than made up for her parents’ nerves. In the end she hadn’t been able to keep the Hogsmeade attack from them, although she had left out the part about the Dark Mark and made it sound more like a random incident...which it _might_ turn out to be after all. Right? The Aurors would figure it all out, she told herself.

“Aw, Andrew, I can bring you with me any time.” Mary thought she would probably regret making this offer come July. Andrew was not likely to forget it. But it pacified him for now, and made her mother happy too.

“You’re in a good mood,” Ruolan said. “Is it a boy?”

Mary scoffed; Andrew and Clyde both coughed and pretended not to hear this.

“What gave you that impression? Maybe I’m just excited to go back to school.”

Ruolan’s smile gave way to shrewdness. “Your mother’s no eejit, Mary Macdonald. You’ve got perfume on, and that potion in your hair.” Andrew and Clyde coughed again.

Mary rolled her eyes. “I wish I’d never told you about Sleekeazy’s.”

“Don’t tell me, then,” said Ruolan with a sniff. “I’m sure I’ll see him at the station anyway.”

Mary resolved _not_ to speak to Doc at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, no matter what message it might send. Her mother was too much of a wild card to be allowed near any of the boys she’d fancied. So what if she was wearing a bit of perfume? She always looked her best. It had nothing to do with kissing him at Evan’s. But — it was good to know that this...whatever it was, wasn’t a one-off. Mary had no clue if Doc fancied _her_ , but at the very least he liked kissing her. Maybe that was her problem. She tried to speed things up. So why not take this slow?

“All right, we’re going to be late, everyone up—” Ruolan bounced to her feet, waving a hand at the rest of her family.

“Mum, it’s ten o’clock,” said Mary, amused. “The train isn’t going to leave for a whole hour.”

“We aren’t aiming to get there in time for the train to _leave_ ,” Ruolan retorted. “I need to say hello to your friends’ parents, after all — is dear Doris Evans going to be there, do you think?”

“I expect—”

“—and what if there’s a rush at Charing Cross? Andrew, put your coat on.”

Mary paused rifling through her purse, a clump of Sickles in her fist. “Whatever are we going to Charing Cross for?”

“The Tube, love,” Clyde said.

“Well, what was the point in bringing the car from _Glasgow_ if we’re not going to drive to King’s Cross?” 

“Andrew wants to take the Tube, and since we’re all the way here—”

Mary scowled at her brother, who avoided meeting her gaze. “Andrew can look at trains some other day, Mum. I’ve got an owl and a cat and a trunk, and you want to wrestle them all into the Underground?”

“Don’t take that tone with me—”

“We’ll manage, Mare, don’t you worry,” said Clyde, shooting his wife a pleading look. “We’re on time anyway, we can be extra careful.”

In response Mary thrust her owl’s cage at Andrew, and then her cat’s carrier. “Make yourself useful.”

This was hardly punishment for him; Andrew’s eyes grew wide with delight as the owl, Helga, bit his finger. Mary stifled a groan and slipped on her coat. The Macdonalds were still bickering lightly as they stepped out into the damp January morning.

“Don’t be suspicious,” Louisa King said, for about the tenth time this morning. 

Her husband William gave her a long-suffering look. “Louisa, why would I be suspicious? It’s not like this is the first time we’re going to Platform Nine and—”

Louisa hissed. “Don’t say it where anyone can hear you!”

“Come off it, you enjoy baiting me—”

“Oh, yes, I’m always pushing you into doing things, you’re never at fault—”

Germaine sighed, though neither of them heard her. Her mother had Apparated them near the station, Germaine’s battered old trunk between them, and all three of them were moving at a glacial pace through King’s Cross. Germaine wanted nothing more than to be on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters already, so that she could be with her friends and her parents could just go home and ignore each other, as they obviously would prefer to do.

She recalled her first year at Hogwarts, when it had been four of them going to the station; she’d been before, of course, to drop off Abigail, but that year had been special, and different. _Dad_ , she’d said, _it’s called King’s Cross, but_ we’re _the Kings_. And William had grinned and ruffled her hair, telling her she could be king of the world.

The arguing still hadn’t let up. Germaine was brought back to reality.

“You’re calling more attention to us with your shouting than anything,” she said, and finally her parents stopped short, looking at her guiltily. This was more than she’d said to her parents about the... _split_ all holidays. They did not look surprised at her tone, nor her words. That only annoyed Germaine more; if they expected her to be upset, why hadn’t they done anything about it?

“While I’m at it,” she said, “you shouldn’t have kept it from me. I know you told Abigail first. It’s funny, you treat me like a baby but you _still_ owled me about it on my _birthday_. Did either of you realise that?”

“Darling,” said Louisa, her voice softening, “we know you must be upset, but you didn’t want to talk all holiday—”

Germaine scowled. “Yeah, well, not talking seems to be what we’re good at.” 

Before either of her parents could stop her, she marched right towards the barrier between platforms Nine and Ten, charging through it and leaving them behind.

“Coffee on the way back?” Ruth Walker said to her husband, her hand absently running over her daughter’s hair.

“Mum, please stop stroking my hair, I feel about five years old,” said Dorcas; Ruth smiled at her and dropped her hand to Doe’s shoulder.

Joe stifled a yawn, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Count me in. The nice cafe, by the—”

“Florist’s, of course,” finished Ruth.

“Drat, I want to go to the cafe,” Doe said.

Joe gave an exaggerated sigh. “Poor you, you only _have_ to go to Hogwarts instead.”

“All right, all right, point taken…”

Ruth laughed. “You don’t have to keep us company, you know. I’m sure you’ve got loads of people to say hello to.”

“Well, I saw most of them two days ago, basically.” But Doe didn’t mind her dismissal; her parents, she knew, got quite misty-eyed about their own school days, and they were best left alone at times like this. She gave them both pecks on the cheek and, trunk in hand, started towards the Hogwarts Express.

The girls liked to sit in the same compartment if they could help it, or the same carriage at the very least — near the front of the train. Since Lily had been named prefect, this worked out very nicely; she could divide her time between the prefects’ carriage and her friends. Doe moved automatically in that direction, but it wasn’t long before she was waylaid by familiar faces.

“Dorcas, darling!” Sara waved her over, hugging her as if they hadn’t just been at the same party. “My aunt loved hearing from you, by the way — this girl,” she said, whirling them both around so that she could address the two students she’d been conversing with, “is going to be a very important person at the Ministry _very_ soon, mark my words.”

Dorcas laughed, extricating herself from Sara’s grip. “I don’t know about that. Your aunt’s really nice, but her work isn’t really in line with Auror stuff, is it?”

Sara’s eyes went wide. “On the contrary! The program is really selective, you know, and any little edge you have could be the difference between acceptance and rejection. Wouldn’t _you_ say an Auror applicant with knowledge of the Wizengamot would be invaluable?”

This question was directed at Chris Townes and Cecily Sprucklin, who looked as though they did not want to be dragged into this conversation. 

“Maybe,” Cecily said, “yeah. I mean, if Sara’s aunt thinks you’re good.”

“Oh, I’m sure all I’d be doing is making her tea and filing her least interesting papers,” said Dorcas, smiling. “They can’t share top-secret Wizengamot business with seventeen-year-olds.”

“I haven’t a clue what they can and can’t share, but if you don’t apply you won’t know either,” Sara said. 

Doe shook her head, laughing. “I think you want it for me even more than I do. Anyway, I should go save a compartment—”

“The usual one?” said Sara.

“If I can get it.”

“I’ll find you and the girls later. Bye, Doe!”

Still smiling, Dorcas continued towards the carriage, stopping once more to chat with James and Peter, the latter of whom was watching Cecily with an expression of great confusion. More than once Doe caught herself scanning the chattering crowd of students. Where _were_ her friends?

Luckily, Germaine appeared just then, her expression thunderous. Doe hurried over to her, alarmed. They had not talked much about her abrupt departure from Evan Wronecki’s party in all the hubbub of packing for school again. Doe had intended to quiz Germaine on the train, and not a second too soon, she thought. 

“Want to sit? Where are your parents?” Dorcas peered over Germaine’s shoulder, as if her minuscule frame could possibly have been hiding Mr. and Mrs. King.

“Hell if I know,” Germaine said. “Have you seen Lily and Mary already?”

“No, I was just looking— Look, let’s just go get our compartment, they’ll find us later.”

Germaine’s scowl eased, just a little. “Okay.”

James put his hands in his pockets, shaking his head. “It’s typical, it really is.”

Peter tore his gaze from Cecily Sprucklin, frowning. “What is?”

“That rosy post-party mood.” He jerked his chin in the direction of a clump of sixth and seventh years. “Everyone doing things they wouldn’t normally do with people they wouldn’t normally do them with.”

“You’re going to have to spell it out for me, mate.”

“It’s like this.” James pointed discreetly at Chris Townes and Cecily Sprucklin. “Chris and Cecily? Hooked up at Evan’s, obviously. That’s why they’re hovering around each other. But it’s not going to last.”

Peter’s frown deepened. “It isn’t?”

“Nah. Because Florence Quaille has been in love with Chris for ages, and as soon as Cecily hears she’ll make sure to distance herself from him. A bit weird that she never told her friend about it, but...birds, you know.”

Most of this was news to Peter, save for that last part. At least now that he know there _was_ something up with Florence and Cecily, he’d steer clear of them both. It was nice when a girl paid him attention, but it wasn’t worth all that.

“Where’s Padfoot?” Peter looked up and down the platform, but there was no sign of their friend. “Didn’t you come with him?”

“Relax, Wormtail, it’s not like he can get lost here. No, he’s getting us a compartment. Wizard stack loser’s got to suffer somehow.”

Peter looked down at his own trunk. “Hang on, did I _win_ wizard staff?”

“Did you? I have no idea when I put mine down. Do you remember how many beers you had?”

“Eight,” said Peter decisively.

James’s eyebrows rose. “Jesus. I had seven, so that’s you, then.”

Peter grinned. He was about to tell James to put _his_ trunk away when the other boy spoke once more.

“Are you actually interested in Cecily?” James sounded serious all of a sudden — more serious, Peter thought, than the topic actually warranted. “You keep looking at her.”

Peter had to stop himself from looking at her once more. “Nah, not really. I mean, would I have snogged her? Yeah. But.” He shrugged. “Not like I’m in love with her.” 

This was quite sincere. He’d shot up last summer and was now only a little shorter than his friends, but he was aware that Cecily Sprucklin was rather pretty. She was out of his league, and he didn’t mind.

“Oh, all right.” James looked relieved. “We kissed, at Evan’s.”

Peter’s cheer faded a little. “You and Cecily?”

“Yeah.” James was growing more and more sheepish; Peter was surprised that anyone, least of all _him_ , could have that sort of effect on his friend. “Just a kiss.”

“Don’t worry about it, mate. Like I said, it’s not like I’m—”

A hand clapped on his shoulder. “Are we talking about Prongs and his nighttime activities?” Sirius said.

“No,” Peter said, giving him a smile, “just how he snogged Ce—”

“Oh, why didn’t you come back until the next morning, then?”

James rolled his eyes. “I _wasn’t_ shagging Cecily Sprucklin. Look at her, she’s all cosy with Chris Townes.”

Sirius peered in their direction. He seemed unusually energetic, Peter noticed; jittery, like he’d had too much coffee. There was a manic sort of glint in his eye. 

“So she is,” said Sirius finally. “That rosy post-party thing, eh?”

“Exactly,” James grinned, looking at Peter as if to say _see?_ He _knows_. 

“Then I’ll go take advantage of it.” Like a shot Sirius was gone again.

James and Peter exchanged a look, their earlier awkwardness forgotten. 

“Has he been acting strange all holiday?” said Peter, nervousness stealing over him. He’d _meant_ to ask Sirius how he was managing at Evan’s party, but of course what with Florence...and Cecily… Well, he’d had a lot on his mind.

“No,” James said slowly. “We’ll find out what it is soon, I expect. C’mon, let’s go get a good compartment.”

Despite her earlier complaints, Mary was quite proud, as always, to show her family Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. They were Muggles, of course, and so they did not often get a look at a proper wizarding place; not like Mr. and Mrs. Walker, who often talked about their days at Hogwarts, nor like Mr. and Mrs. King, who were both magical and occasionally went to Quidditch matches. The platform was not as impressive as Diagon Alley, but it had a special sort of magic nevertheless.

“The Tube doesn’t hold a candle to this,” Mary said to Andrew, whose eyes were wide. He had been left with their grandparents in September, much to his sorrow, and so it had been a full year since he’d seen the Hogwarts Express.

“I’ll say,” Andrew breathed. “Can you introduce us to your friends? Some really magical ones?”

She stifled a laugh, and resisted the urge to remind him that they were _all_ really magical. “I’ll do you one better — my friends’ parents are fully-grown witches and wizards.”

But she could not find Mr. and Mrs. Walker, nor Mr. and Mrs. King… Perhaps they hadn’t arrived yet. The Macdonalds had indeed been painfully punctual, even with all the strange looks Mary’s owl and cat had earned them on the Tube. Mary was growing impatient; if she wanted to find Doc, she’d have to do it away from her mum’s keen eye, and to rid herself of her parents she’d have to saddle them with another family.

“Oh!” She waved at Doris Evans, feeling a wave of relief. “There’s Lily, come on—”

The Macdonalds dutifully trudged after her. Andrew looked disappointed at the prospect of meeting more Muggles; that quickly changed to extreme embarrassment when he recognised Lily.

There was much hugging and kissing between them all — aside from Lily’s sister Petunia, who simply sniffed and shook their hands instead. Mary tried not to scowl. Though Lily spoke fondly of her sister as much as she complained about her, _she_ didn’t care for the snooty expression with which Petunia gazed at the platform. 

“—so good to see you, Ruolan,” Mrs. Evans was saying, wearing a tired sort of smile. Mary guessed she’d been refereeing some kind of conflict between Lily and Petunia, who were pointedly not looking at each other.

Ruolan smiled in return, practised enough that she did not wince at Doris’s mispronunciation of her name, though Mary caught Lily’s grimace. “Lily gets more beautiful every day,” she said, beaming.

Both Mrs. Evans and Lily flushed at this. 

“You’re too kind—”

Petunia was frowning. Mary tried not to roll her eyes. 

“Lily,” she said, taking her friend’s arm, “let’s go put our trunks away. They’ll spend ages on how are yous and how was your Christmases.”

Lily herself was looking a bit under the weather, Mary thought, pale, like she hadn’t been sleeping. _First Germaine, now this_. There would be plenty of time to catch up on the train anyway, and she planned on making the most of it. Classes would start again tomorrow, and then they would be caught in the whirl of everyday activity once more… 

“You go ahead,” said Lily, cutting through Mary’s reverie. “I wanted to say bye properly and go find Dex...”

“Oh, all right. Tell Dreamboat I say hello. Dad and I can put your trunk away, if you like.”

“You don’t have to—”

Clyde, hearing the tail end of this conversation, gave Lily a wide smile. “It’s really no trouble.”

Lily accepted defeat, giving Mary a quick hug. “I’ll see you. The usual compartment, right?”

Andrew continued to cling to the two animal carriers he’d been put in charge of; Mary told the families she would back to say goodbye and collect her owl and her cat, and she and her father hauled the girls’ trunks after them towards the front of the train. As it was, Clyde and Mary bustled away too quickly to notice what Doris and Ruolan had turned to discussing.

“Thank you for having Lily over the other night,” said Doris. “She took that frightful bus back, she said.”

Ruolan gave no hint of her true reaction, though her mind whirled at this. _She_ certainly hadn’t had Lily over, because she had not served Lily a big breakfast, and she could not have abided one of her children’s friends leaving without eating breakfast first. But it was certainly possible that Lily had left quietly, and early in the morning...not that she seemed like the sort of girl to dash off without so much as a thank you.

All she said out loud was, “Yes, the _bus_ , it sounds so dangerous—”

“Point out your friends to me, would you?” Clyde said.

Mary beamed, only too happy to accommodate this request. Her father was a soft-spoken giant of a man, not at all stooped in his old age. The Macdonalds had a successful little dairy farm outside of Glasgow — _yes, like in the nursery rhyme_ , Mary had grown used to saying, and had been thrilled to bits when so few people at Hogwarts understood that reference — and Clyde had made enough money for an early retirement. Mary and Andrew were rather used to a life of leisure, both for themselves and for their parents.

But while Ruolan had a dozen or so hobbies to keep her busy, Clyde’s chief sources of delight were the lives of his daughter and son. It was a good thing, too, that Mary was so sociable and gregarious; she had plenty of stories to regale her father with.

“That’s Chris,” she said, waving at Chris Townes as she pointed him out, “and that’s Cecily with him, they’re Hufflepuffs. Sixth years like me. Those are the seventh years over there, Evan—” _Mercifully alone_ , she thought. “—He’s the one whose party we went to the other day.”

“The girl over there? She’s a prefect, isn’t she?” Clyde said, squinting a little at the badge.

Mary grimaced. “ _She’s_ not my friend.” As if sensing she was being discussed, Amelia Bones looked up and frowned at her.

Clyde chuckled. “Play nice, Mare.”

“I always do!” she protested. “There’s Sirius — blimey, he looks angry…”

He was scowling like he’d had a bad run-in with the Slytherins. Mary looked around to make sure none of _them_ were visible. She often had to remind her dad of the names of her acquaintances, but she had a feeling his memory was crystal-clear where Mulciber and Avery were concerned.

“That’s Florence, by the carriage door,” Mary said, spotting the girl’s familiar blonde ponytail. “And that’s— Michael.”

She blinked, unsure what, exactly, she was bearing witness to. Florence was holding Michael’s hand — and then she was kissing him on the cheek, and giving him a very meaningful look indeed. It was only on the cheek, but—

Clyde had noticed the sudden halt in Mary’s running commentary.

“Something wrong?” His gaze fell on Florence and Michael. “That’s not the, erm, boy your mother was talking about?”

“Gosh, _no_ , Dad!”

Clyde’s frown remained. “Good. Looks a bit sleekit, if you ask me.”

On any other day she would have defended Michael Meadowes from her father’s judgment. Mary didn’t _think_ he was untrustworthy, but she couldn’t be certain anymore.

“Here’s the carriage,” she said, her good humour replaced by something more businesslike. “Would you mind asking Andrew to pass me Helga and Olive through the window? I’ve really got to speak to Doe.”

He wasn’t anywhere on the platform. But he’d definitely gone home for Christmas — so he had to be on the train. Scowling, Sirius stepped in through one of the doors and began the long way down the corridor, peering into compartments as he went and ignoring their occupants’ complaints.

“You’re supposed to sit down when the train’s moving—” One of the Auror trainees, vaguely familiar from last term, tried to block his way. He wasn’t Frank, or Marlene, or Frank’s girlfriend; _the other one_ , Sirius had mentally called him.

“Well, it’s not moving yet, is it?” Sirius snapped. The man didn’t seem to want to argue with that; he pushed past before the trainee could change his mind.

It didn’t take him long after that. Regulus had always been a swot, and so he was right in front by the prefects’ carriage. Sirius could hear that git Rowle through the compartment door, going on about whatever stupid thing his precious father had given him for Christmas, and, faintly, Regulus’s more measured replies. He yanked the door open.

“Get out, this one’s full—” Rowle began, then did a double take at the sight of him. “You—”

“Shut the fuck up, Rowle, I’m not here for you.” Sirius sat opposite his brother, who met his gaze unflinchingly. “Why didn’t you bring the cat?” he said. “I saw you, earlier. You didn’t have a carrier.”

Regulus’s calm gave way to slight panic. Sirius noted this with some satisfaction — he _hoped_ he was scared.

“I — couldn’t bring her,” Regulus said.

“Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?” Sirius shook his head. He ought to have known. 

“Well, Mum wouldn’t—”

He barked a laugh. “Stupid of me to think you’d do even the smallest thing that goes against her commands. Stupid of me to expect you to think for yourself for about half a—”

“I don’t owe you anything!” Regulus burst out. “Why should I help you?” He chanced a look at Rowle; Sirius glanced at the other boy too. He was, rather wisely, staring at the compartment door and pretending not to listen.

When Regulus spoke again, his voice was lower. “She’s been in a terrible mood because of you—”

“Since _November?”_ Sirius scoffed. “Oh, come on. She’s in a mood because she’s fucking awful, and she wants to be fucking awful.”

“Try and think like her for a second. One of her sons—”

“Spare me, Regulus. All I wanted was my fucking cat.”

Regulus clenched his jaw. “She was _my_ cat too, you know!”

“Please, I was the one who suffered Mum’s wrath any time she knocked something over or scratched her precious armchairs or—” He stopped short, frowning. “What do you mean she _was_ your cat? What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Sirius was certain he wasn’t imagining it this time. His brother had gone pale. He didn’t want to consider what that meant— _no, it’s not, I won’t, she_ can’t _have_. He should have taken Heathcliff with him to start the school year — he should’ve left Heathcliff at the Potters’ years ago — but Walburga had been happy to have something with which to control her son’s behaviour. She would not have let the cat go so easily... Desperation clawed its way up his throat.

“Regulus. What the _fuck_ did she do?”

Regulus looked sick. “She — she killed her.”

Sirius sat back, the words hitting him like a physical blow. “This is a joke,” he said faintly. “This is a sick joke she put you up to, isn’t it?” He turned to Rowle, who was watching with openmouthed horror.

“It isn’t,” Regulus said. “I’m — I’m _sorry_ , I tried to—”

He should have taken Heathcliff with him… No, he should never have brought the stray kitten into his family’s house, not with his drunk of a father and hellish bitch of a mother— He should never have had anything at all, and then Walburga wouldn’t have had anything to hurt— because of _him_.

“No,” Sirius said, quite calmly. “No, you tried fuck-all. Like you always do, toeing the damn line.”

“I tried to stop her!” 

Regulus’s voice broke in the middle of his sentence, but Sirius barely noticed. He was standing now, looming over his brother; now he had him by the collar, now he was hauling him up out of his seat.

“No, you didn’t, because _you’re just as bad as she is!”_

He realised he was shouting. He so badly wanted Regulus to shout back at him — but his brother only flinched. Sirius felt sick all of a sudden, sicker than any part of the conversation had made him so far. He let Regulus go and staggered away, out of the compartment. He needed to forget everything he’d just heard.

“Is something wrong?”

Sirius blinked, expecting to see another Auror trainee — but it was Annie Markham, already wearing her Hogwarts uniform with its shiny prefect’s badge pinned to her chest. In a way it was a relief. He couldn’t let an acquaintance see him fall to bits. He tried a smile, and probably only got halfway there.

“It’s stupid,” he said. “I just need a distraction.”

“Tell me about it. Look, the train’s about to leave, but if we hurry we can get to the prefects’ carriage.”

Sirius frowned. “What’s happening in the prefects’ carriage?”

Annie smiled. “Meetings have been cancelled, so the compartments should be far emptier than usual. Come _on_.” She took his hand, and he let her tug him away.

* * *

_ii. The Name of the Game_

“Go on, Lily, the train’s going to leave without you,” Doris said.

Lily chanced a glance at her watch; it was five to eleven, she realised. She’d stationed her family right at the barrier, hoping to catch Dex when he came through, but she hadn’t spotted him anywhere. Well, never mind, she could look for him on the train... She gave her mother a hurried kiss; after a tense moment, she pulled Petunia into a hug.

“I’ll miss you,” Lily said, and suddenly she was bowled over by emotion. She squeezed her sister tight.

“All right, all _right_ , you’ve made your point—” Petunia was saying. When Lily released her, she was pink in the face.

“Write to me, please.” Struck by a burst of inspiration, she pushed Peppermint’s cage into her sister’s hands. “Keep my owl, that way you can send me a letter whenever you like.”

Doris had gone a bit misty-eyed herself. “Don’t you need him?”

“I’ll use one of the school ones, it’s no trouble.” In an undertone, she told Petunia, “Thank you. For taking such good care of Mum, I mean. I don’t say it enough.”

Petunia, who had bristled when Lily foisted the owl upon her, softened at this. 

“Don’t make me teary,” she said with a thin smile. “I’ve got mascara on.”

With another quick hug and a wave, Lily rushed onto the train. She could make her way to the front from the inside, she reasoned. And she could find Dex as she went. She was so satisfied with this plan that she nearly collided with someone moving down the corridor.

“Sorry!” Michael Meadowes said. “Sorry, I should’ve looked where I was—”

“No, no,” said Lily. The train had begun to pull away from the station; she could feel the hum of the engine growing louder. “I’m all right, I wasn’t paying attention either.”

“Well, I hope you’ve had a nice holiday.”

“Yes, very — I hope you have too.”

He nodded. They lapsed into a brief silence, each wanting to edge around the other but uncertain how to do it.

“Have you seen—” they said at the same time, then laughed.

“You first,” said Michael.

“Have you seen Dex Fortescue, by any chance? Seventh year, Hufflepuff.”

He shook his head. “No, sorry. I was going to ask, have you seen Dorcas?”

“Not all morning, no,” Lily said. “I expect she’ll be at the front of the train, though. That’s where we usually sit. I’m headed there, if you’d like to come along—?”

“Oh, thanks, but it’s not that urgent. I just wanted to say hi, return a book…” Michael shrugged.

Lily resisted the urge to arch a brow. “I’ll tell her to find you at dinner, then.”

“Thanks. If you need somewhere to sit, there’s a bunch of sixth years just over here.” He jerked his thumb at a nearby compartment.

“That’s all right, my trunk’s with the girls,” said Lily. 

Feeling that the conversation had definitely run its course, she said goodbye to Michael and continued her way up the train. She had just opened the door to the next carriage when another figure stepped into her path — but this one, she realised with shock, was an adult. 

The wizard was definitely not the Honeydukes employee who came round with the trolley — not unless they had replaced Brenda Gamp with a very different character. _This_ man would have scared the first years to bits, Lily thought. He was intimidatingly tall, his white-blonde hair slicked off his forehead to reveal every plane of his grim expression. His lips thinned into an even finer line at the sight of her. For her part, Lily was frowning, trying to figure out why he looked familiar.

“You should be sitting down,” the man said.

“I was just going to,” Lily said. Her movements on the train had never been questioned before; she did not know how to react, nor how to ask the wizard who he was. “I’m going up to the front.”

But the man was shaking his head. “Please, just take a seat in the nearest compartment.”

“I’m a prefect,” She pointed to the badge. I need to be in the front — I need to patrol—”

“No prefect meetings today, I’m afraid,” the man said. “You’re to have a seat, Miss—?”

“Evans. But you must be mistaken. Both the heads should be on the train back, and we haven’t gone over weekly schedules—”

The man gave an impatient sigh. “Evans, the Head Boy and the Head Girl are with Aurors, so they are most certainly not meeting with you. As it happens, Aurors are patrolling the corridors too, so you needn’t worry yourself about it.”

With _Aurors?_ Lily felt as though she’d been doused with cold water. She’d worried about what new security measures would be in place at school, and she’d come face to face with them earlier than she’d expected to. 

“You’re an Auror,” she said. “You’re Patrick Podmore, you’re one of the people investigating the Hogsmeade murders.” The newest, in fact; the lead investigator on the case was a witch named Hartwick, but Lily had just read the names of the rest of the team in that morning’s _Prophet_.

Podmore looked neither pleased nor annoyed at being recognised. “Read the paper, do you? Then you’ll know you should do as I say.”

The man’s patronising tone made Lily want to argue, against her better instincts. “All right, I’m going,” she said, turning on her heel. Michael had said he and a bunch of sixth years were at this end of the train—

“Stop!” 

Lily froze, sighing. “What?”

“I don’t want you wandering around,” said Podmore. He slid open the door to a random compartment, and gestured for her to enter. It was empty.

Lily bit back her protest. She had a bookbag with her, at least, carrying some of her homework and a novel. If Patrick Podmore wanted to spoil her train ride, he could do a lot worse than sticking her in an empty compartment. With a false smile at the Auror, she stepped into the compartment and sat down. He shut the door with finality after her.

She shouldn’t have let her mother guilt-trip her into leaving _Pride and Prejudice_ at home, Lily thought sadly. She had swapped the well-worn thing for a far less perused copy of _Sense and Sensibility_ , since Doris had insisted she ought to have _Emma_ and _Pride and Prejudice_ both for one term. _I’ll be taking them right back at Easter_ , Lily told herself. Removing her bookmark, she settled into a more comfortable position and began to read. 

Almost at once, she felt herself wincing. She’d stopped at an awful part; the Dashwood sisters had just gone to London, and Marianne was in the process of writing her flowery, sentimental letters to Willoughby. Lily found herself quite angry at Marianne, a feeling she’d never had before. But if only she wasn’t such a ridiculous romantic, if only she’d talked to even-keeled, dutiful Elinor, who’d have steered her right… It was impossible to read how she fawned over Willoughby, knowing what came next. If only Marianne had less sensibility and more sense!

Lily sniffed and realised, to her utter horror, that she was crying. Only very little, but she was _definitely_ crying. It was unfair, really, to compare her own situation to Marianne’s. Why, it _wasn’t_ the 1800s, and she hadn’t _lost_ anything. And Dex was no Willoughby — all he’d done was forget to write her back, which was something _she’d_ done to him too over the holidays. He was studying for his N.E.W.T.s, wasn’t he? There was nothing to gain by overanalysing the timing of his forgetfulness, which was to say, the fact that he had forgotten to write her back _after_ she’d slept with him.

But it wasn’t something to cry about. Surely if Mary were here right now, she’d be telling Lily not to cry about it. She took a moment to curse Patrick Podmore for not letting her find her friends; she even felt a little resentful of Dumbledore, who must have let the Aurors come on the train and ruin everything... 

The sex itself had been fine, if a bit awkward (but that was normal too, wasn’t it?), but the _problem_ had really begun the next day. It was strange, waking up with somebody. It had taken Lily ages to fall asleep, unused as she was to the feeling of someone else in bed with her. And as she was wont to do, she did not wake up until the sun had properly risen, blinking in confusion at the unfamiliar room around her.

She’d dressed and slipped out, standing in the beautiful artwork-lined hallway for a few long minutes. Which way was the stairs, again? She had been saved the worry, because Dex had emerged from what looked like a bathroom, his hair damp. He’d grinned at the sight of her, giving her a kiss; Lily had spent the duration of the kiss worrying about what her breath smelled like. Dex smelled like pine needles and mint. On the other hand, she probably looked as dreadful as she smelled.

“Breakfast?” said Dex, interrupting her frantic train of thought. “The blokes are downstairs putting the sitting room back in order, but the house elves can get you something.”

“Oh.” Lily hadn’t contended with _the blokes_ , but of course some of Evan’s other friends had stayed the night too. She was quite sure she was scarlet. “Let me just — wash up—”

He’d given way, and told her to meet him downstairs. Lily had cleaned off the previous night’s makeup hastily, and, for lack of anything to brush her teeth with, rinsed her mouth with a bottle of Dentifricium Mouthwash by the sink. Oh, if only she had a different set of clothes…

All things considered, it should not have been so strange, being seen by her boyfriend’s friends the morning after a party. But Lily felt altogether unprepared. Would they wonder— No, they all had better things to do than speculate about her sex life, didn’t they, and Evan was nice, and Dex wouldn’t let them say anything, and did boys even talk about things like this? She wished there was someone she could have asked, but Remus, bless him, would probably have wriggled right out of answering that question. 

There was nothing to it; she had to swan out there unbothered as you please. Brushing at an invisible speck on her jeans, Lily stepped out of the bathroom and made her way downstairs. The house looked less intimidating in the daylight — airier, certainly, but in a welcoming sort of way. It was easy to follow the boys’ voices to the sitting room, the sight of the previous night’s debauchery.

Spellwork had done most of the cleaning, she guessed. The sitting room smelled like air freshener and the furniture had been moved back into place. Evan was attacking a spot on the carpet with some kind of magical stain-remover. Doc Dearborn was levitating a stack of books back to a coffee table, while Stephen Fawcett and Dex were mending a leg on the high, spindly table that had been the bar. 

“Lily!” Dex sprang up at the sight of her.

Lily gave a tame little wave. “Morning.”

They chorused a greeting at her.

“Can I get you something?” Evan said. “Breakfast, a bit of tea? We’ve got eggs going.”

She thought _we_ must mean the house elves. “Oh, don’t worry about me.” Lily felt she was hovering awkwardly, and they’d all been doing well without her there. “Is there something I can help with?”

“We’re nearly done, don’t worry,” said Doc. “Marissa was supposed to come back and do her share — so much for that.” He rolled his eyes.

Lily tried to imagine Marissa Beasley in her situation, but she could not picture the Head Girl as anything but jovial and at ease. Maybe it would have been less awkward with Marissa there — or maybe it would have been worse, and Lily would only have felt like more of an outsider amidst the seventh years. She was suddenly sure that if she stayed for breakfast things would only get more awkward, and she couldn’t bear it.

“I should go, then,” she blurted out. “My mum will be expecting me.”

“I can Apparate you,” said Dex. “If you give me an address—”

“No, that’s okay, I don’t want to—”

“C’mon, Lily, my mum would be furious if I let you go without you eating something,” said Evan. 

“As it is we’re looking for any way to postpone our studying,” Stephen said. “Awful lot of N.E.W.T. homework, you know.”

“Exactly — just stay until Marissa gets here, she can take you to hers and then you can Floo back.”

Lily could feel her face heating up. “I can’t Floo, I’m not— I’m Muggle-born.”

Evan blinked. “Oh, right. Sorry, I forgot.”

The boys all looked embarrassed now; Lily recalled that Dex had been by the lake during exams last June, when Severus had called her... _well_ … How many of his friends had been there too? Were they all remembering that day right now?

“I’ll just take the Knight Bus,” said Lily hurriedly. “I’ve done it before, it’s no problem.”

“If you’re sure,” Dex said, his expression uncertain.

Lily had assured them all that yes, she was certain, and then she’d scurried off, feeling very foolish indeed. It was a lucky thing that Evan lived somewhere in the Midlands too; the ride on the bus was brief, and then she’d been home, smiling brightly and telling Doris she’d spent the night at Mary’s. 

She had always been under the impression that when she did have sex, her mother would be able to tell. She’d _sense_ it somehow, in the way that mothers sniffed everything out. Lily was no idiot, and did not think having sex constituted becoming a woman, or some rubbish like that, but years of sporadic Sunday school had left its mark. Surely she had some mark of...carnal knowledge? But Doris hadn’t suspected a thing. 

That was almost _worse_. All she could do was think. Lily had spent the last two days of the holidays alternating between worrying about the ever so casual letter she’d written to Dex and mindlessly flicking through the wireless at a rate that drove Petunia up the wall. Were _all_ songs secretly about sex?

The 60s station, normally her faithful companion, was no longer safe. First Lily had choked on her tea at “I Can’t Control Myself,” and then her eyes had gone wide at “I Think We’re Alone Now” — and even the Stones! She didn’t think she could ever listen to “Satisfaction” again. At that point Petunia had snidely asked her if she was having some sort of fit, and Lily had turned the wireless off with a huff. 

Sure, it had only been two days, and Dex had probably spent those two days with his friends or cramming ahead of term. But Lily had expected him to say something. Wasn’t that the thing to do, when you slept with your girlfriend for the first time? She wasn’t asking for much, was she? Lily knew she ought to tell her friends — but telling the whole story again seemed nearly as embarrassing as living it.

 _Pull yourself together_ , she told herself, straightening her shoulders. What the hell was she doing, crying on the Hogwarts Express while reading _Sense and Sensibility?_ Lily would find Dex and make her feelings known. And then everything would be cleared up, and she’d have nothing more to worry about. Satisfied with this decision-making, she shoved the book back into her bag, leaned back, and closed her eyes. 

The moment she had, though, voices rose outside the door. Lily sighed. If the Aurors were arguing with a student again, she ought to go mediate. Smoothing her skirt down, she slid the door open.

“Is everything all right?” she said in her most authoritative voice.

“Oh, you again,” said Patrick Podmore, sounding impossibly weary. “I assure you, Evers, I can sort out a train full of students fine enough without an underage witch’s help—”

“Evans,” Lily corrected. She glanced at Podmore’s adversary. “Oh, hi, James.”

When the trolley witch’s familiar voice floated down the corridor, Germaine leapt to her feet.

“I’ll get the snacks. What does everyone want?”

“Grab me a Licorice Wand, would you?” Sara barely looked up from the novel she was reading, handing Germaine a clump of coins that was _certainly_ more than the cost of one Licorice Wand.

“This is way too much,” said Germaine.

“Is it?” Sara glanced up then. “Oh, well, everyone’s sweets can be on me.”

“Groo- _vy_ ,” Dorcas said. “Get me a Cauldron Cake, Germaine. Actually, two.”

“Got it. Mary?”

“Just a sandwich. The nice sort, please.”

Germaine rolled her eyes. “What on earth is—”

“You know!” Mary gestured vaguely. “The egg one, with the—”

“Egg and cress,” Dorcas said, aiming a kick at Mary.

“Right, how silly of me not to realise.” 

Rolling her eyes again, Germaine slid the compartment door open and walked the few feet to where the trolley woman, a plump, friendly witch named Brenda Gamp, was doling out pasties to a group of third years.

“Morning, Brenda. Had a good Christmas?”

The witch gave her a wavering smile. “All right, all things...considered…”

Germaine wanted to smack herself on the forehead. Of course, Brenda lived in Hogsmeade, and was probably more frightened than anyone by the murders.

“Right, stupid of me,” Germaine said hurriedly. “I hope your family is safe, and everything—” She suddenly could not remember the names of the two murder victims. Oh, Merlin, what if Brenda _was_ related to one of them?

But to her relief, Brenda only said, “Everyone’s okay for now, thanks. Aurors all over the place, of course, but that’s to be expected.” She glanced nervously down the train corridor, as if an Auror was about to jump up and question her. 

A nearby compartment door slid open. “Hello, are you finished yet? Oh, Germaine, hi.”

Germaine started. It was Emmeline, because of _course_ it was. Had she ever said her first name before? Germaine didn’t think so. She noticed that Emmeline’s dark, straight hair was held away from her face with a pair of matching blue barrettes. How odd. She’d never seen her wear any sort of hair ornamentation before. And then Germaine remembered she was trying to distance herself from Emmeline.

“Hi,” she said in return, rather stiffly.

“I didn’t want to interrupt.” Emmeline offered Brenda a polite smile. “I gather you’re not done, then.”

Germaine was torn between standing her ground, and lying and running back to her mates. In the end she said, “No, not done yet, sorry.” She turned back to Brenda, expecting Emmeline to wait in her compartment, but to her dismay the Ravenclaw only moved _further_ out of her compartment and shut the door behind her.

“You girls will want to stick close by if you’re stretching your legs,” said Brenda amiably. “Aurors have been telling off students in the corridor all morning.”

“Aurors?” Germaine repeated.

“They’re patrolling,” said Emmeline.

This made Germaine annoyed, for reasons even she knew were unfair. But of course Emmeline knew this, because Emmeline knew _every_ thing, except, apparently, that Chris Townes was a prat.

“That’s nice,” she said, for lack of anything better to say. 

Both Brenda and Emmeline were giving her funny looks.

“I should head back,” said Germaine.

“But I haven’t even got you your food!” Brenda said. “Go on, tell me what you’d like.”

Feeling more awkward than ever, Germaine rattled off her friends’ requests and dumped Sara’s coins into Brenda’s hand. She’d just put her change into her pocket, juggling all the packages she was now holding, when Emmeline cleared her throat. Germaine looked at her, wary. The slightest pinch of a frown had appeared between Emmeline’s brows.

“Are you angry with me?”

Germaine wasn’t good at faking it. She wasn’t like Mary, who could hide everything underneath a cool exterior, nor like Doe, who could be unfailingly polite. She could feel the last vestiges of her patience slipping away. She didn’t have to stand here and make small talk with someone who was — too enigmatic and probably didn’t want to be around her anyway. And how could she begin to explain why things had changed?

“I’m just trying to get back to my friends,” Germaine said, in a clipped sort of way that suggested she _was_ angry with her.

Emmeline’s expression changed almost imperceptibly: a brief narrowing of the eyes, a tightness around her mouth.

“Fine, then.”

Germaine beat a hasty retreat, slipping inside her compartment and shutting the door hard enough to make the window rattle. Her friends did not pause in their conversation. Germaine dropped Sara’s change onto the seat beside her and withdrew a Pumpkin Pasty from the bag for herself, trying to calm her racing heart, 

“All I think is,” Dorcas was saying, “you shouldn’t have to prove yourself to him. You’re smart. You don’t need to look for ways to appear smarter.”

“You should go to Amelia Bones’s book club.” Sara was still hidden behind her novel, a new-looking, squat paperback with a swooning woman on the cover. These, Germaine knew, were Sara’s favourite sort of books, some long, never-ending series of romances by Mandersby and Blake.

Mary wrinkled her nose at this comment, but managed to stop short of expressing her distaste aloud. “Why— What’s that?”

“It’s the perfect way to look smart without actually doing anything,” said Sara. “It’s like a gossip circle, really. The whole book part is a pretense.”

“What’s the book you’re reading right now?”

“You know, I’ve forgotten entirely.” Sara jumped to her feet. “But I can go find out right now.”

Mary looked taken aback by this suggestion. “Well, you don’t have to right away—”

This was just the opening Germaine needed; she wanted to talk to Doe and Mary, but she didn’t feel up to doing it in front of Sara. 

“But it’ll be a pain for you to search through the library for it, Mare,” Germaine said. “What if you need to order one by owl? You should get the title right away.”

“I do need to stretch my legs,” Sara added. Without waiting to hear any argument from Mary, Sara had flounced out of the compartment. Germaine felt a trickle of guilt; there were Aurors on the train, after all, making sure that no one was out of place… But Sara wasn’t doing anything _wrong_ , and if anyone could talk her way out of a sticky spot, it was her.

“She’s off,” Mary said, sighing. “I suppose it’s safe to tell you now, Doe — I saw Michael Meadowes kissing Florence Quaille on the platform.”

Doe’s eyebrows rose. “Kissing?”

“Not exactly. She kissed him. On the cheek. Point being! I don’t think he deserves you.”

Dorcas laughed. “Mary, I was the one who told him to get a rebound, at the party. It sounds like he did.”

Mary looked aghast at this news, and opened her mouth to argue. Before she could, though, Germaine found herself saying, “Can we _stop_ talking about _boys_ for five bloody seconds?”

The compartment went totally silent. Mary and Dorcas were looking at her, eyes wide.

“My parents are splitting up,” said Germaine.

Immediately her friends were giving her twin expressions of sympathy. Doe let out a sigh, taking Germaine’s hand. “I’m sorry, Germaine. I really am.”

“And they told you over the holidays? Blessed Jesus,” said Mary, shaking her head. “That’s a way to start the new year.”

Germaine swallowed. “They told me in September, actually.”

“Oh,” said Mary weakly.

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Dorcas said; her voice was gentle, but the shock in her expression wasn’t difficult to read. “We could’ve—”

“Well, didn’t you notice something was wrong?” Germaine snapped. “Didn’t you notice I was constantly going off to be on my own?”

The other two exchanged a sheepish look.

“I thought you just...wanted to be alone sometimes,” Mary said.

“Not _all_ the time,” Germaine said. 

Tears sprang to her eyes, and the other two smothered her in hugs.

“We’re sorry for not noticing,” said Doe. “We’ll be more attentive, promise.”

Germaine sucked in a shaky breath, clinging onto them as she cried. They stayed like that for a long few minutes until they were all quite aware of how uncomfortable it was to try and comfort a friend in a train compartment — Mary was stretched across the aisle, Doe was half-kneeling on the seat, and Germaine couldn’t really breathe.

“Where on earth is Lily?” she said, her voice muffled by her friends’ arms.

“I think something’s up with him,” Peter said, for just about the millionth time. “What if something’s happened?”

James had spent the morning trying to reassure his friend, but could only manage so much patience. He too felt restless, uneasy — feelings brought on by the shadows that moved up and down the corridor, visible through the glass of their compartment door. Where _was_ Sirius?

“Nothing’s happened,” he said, a moment too late. “Come off it, we’re on the train. It’s not like criminal elements hide on the Hogwarts Express and jump out at unsuspecting students.”

Peter gave him a dour look. “Do the Slytherins count?”

“Sirius wouldn’t do something stupid all on his own.”

“Right. Paragon of good sense, our Padfoot.”

At last James stood up. If he stayed any longer and listened to Peter’s nagging, he’d only start a row. “I’ll go look for him.”

“What?” Peter blinked at him. “Oh — I’ll come with you—”

“Don’t bother, it’ll be easier to slip past the Aurors if there’s just one of us.” He picked up the satchel he’d stuffed the Invisibility Cloak into; it might come in handy, but he did not want to try and manoeuvre around Aurors in the narrow train corridor.

“It’ll be easier to slip past the Aurors as a rat,” Peter pointed out.

James could not deny the logic of this. “Okay, you go up to the front. I’ll start with the back. Just don’t let some bird catch you creeping up the corridor, all right?”

Both of them grinned momentarily, imagining students shrieking at the sight of a rat on the train. 

“Yeah, I’ve no desire to face an exterminator,” said Peter dryly, and in a moment he had vanished, replaced by his Animagus form.

James obligingly slid the compartment door open so that Peter could get through, and looked up and down the corridor. It was empty — for now, at least. With a grimace, he started down to his right, hands in his pockets. He was under no illusions: if Sirius did not want to be found, he would not be. He did not think, like Peter feared, that their friend was off duelling the Slytherins. There was a certain degree of recklessness that Sirius kept away from — had kept away from, at least, since the incident at the Shrieking Shack last year.

No, Sirius was an adult, and they didn’t need to baby him. James would take a stroll down the length of the train, perhaps knock on a few compartment doors if he recognised a voice, but he was really only doing this so Peter would lay off.

In the end, he didn’t get very far.

“Please,” said an incredibly weary voice, “get inside a compartment. You’re not to wander the train.”

James blinked at the wizard. “Oh, you’re Podmore.” 

He was investigating the Hogsmeade murders, he recalled, and his parents were friends of the Potters’. James didn’t think that would really work as a line of argument in what would no doubt be an excruciating conflict. He’d argued with an Auror trainee earlier — the one who wasn’t Alice or Frank or Marlene. He wasn’t sure how keeping them cooped up in their compartments was supposed to protect them, but _that_ hadn’t worked as a line of argument either.

The Auror looked like he was trying not to roll his eyes. “Astute of you. Now take a seat.”

“Yeah, I will,” James said, without a hint of concern. “Just looking for a friend.”

“You’re on a train, going to the same place. You can find your friend at Hogwarts.” Some of Podmore’s patience, worn thin already, seemed to be evaporating.

“I don’t think the world will end if I walk down the corridor.”

“What you think is irrelevant. So when I tell you do something—”

A compartment door slid open. “Is everything all right?”

James opened his mouth to tell this new arrival that it was best just to stay out of it, but he snapped it shut at the sight of familiar red hair. She hadn’t noticed him yet; she was looking at Podmore. There was a polite sort of determination on her face. If James hadn’t known better, he’d have thought Lily was ready to pick a fight.

“Oh, you again,” sighed Podmore. “I assure you, Evers, I can sort out a train full of students fine enough without an underage witch’s help—”

“Evans,” Lily said. Then she turned to him. “Oh, hi, James.”

“Oh, hi,” he said, aware that he was repeating to her what she’d said to him and sounded a bit stupid.

“Found your friend, have you? Good. Get in the compartment.” Podmore looked about ready to bodily haul James through the door himself.

“No, I—” James began and cut himself off, frowning. Lily was making a series of strange expressions at him, possibly trying to get his attention and convey some secret message.

He couldn’t for the life of him figure it out.

Lily huffed, marched towards him, and grabbed him by the arm, hauling him into her compartment. He was surprised enough that he didn’t bother resisting. The compartment was empty, and her things occupied only a corner of one seat. It was very impersonal, but he felt as though he were trespassing. For lack of anything else to do, James sat. Lily shut the door and sat opposite him.

“I was doing fine out there,” he said.

“You can thank me for the rescue,” said Lily.

“I wouldn’t call it a rescue—”

“ _Honestly_ —”

“Thanks for the rescue,” said James quickly, grinning. “I _was_ afraid he’d toss me into any old compartment, and there are more bad possibilities than good. Bertram Aubrey, the Lisas, the Slytherins—”

“The Lisas?”

“Yeah, fifth years, you know the Lisas — they’re not bad, they’re just…” He trailed off. 

He’d only just looked at her, _properly_ looked at her. He had assumed her slight flush had come from confronting Podmore, or perhaps from dragging James into her compartment — rather un-Lily-like behaviour overall — but up close he could see that didn’t seem to be it.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, the tip of her nose pink. Something in him constricted. Like most teenage boys, James was mortally frightened of crying girls, because he felt spectacularly at a loss for what to say to them. But he had to say _some_ thing, didn’t he?

James cleared his throat. “Evans, are you all right?”

Lily had been staring at some vague point over his shoulder; she started at his question. “What? Me?”

“Seeing as how you’re the only other person in this compartment and the only Evans I know, yeah…”

She smiled a little, which was a relief. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be _that_ serious. But James realised he hadn’t seen Lily alone in a while — not since the days when Snape had been her only friend. It was an unnerving sight, like a tree in full bloom had lost its leaves in the middle of spring.

“So?” James prodded. “Are you? All right, I mean.”

She sighed. “Fine. It’s just been a strange sort of Christmas.”

“In the current events sense? Or the…”

She’d been looking down; she met his gaze, half-shrugged. “Both? I wish—” Lily’s smile was a sudden, wry thing. “I wish the world would wait to have crises until my interpersonal tensions resolved themselves.”

“Well, if that’s _all_ you’re wishing for,” said James dryly. 

This too was strange and unusual. He didn’t think Lily was the most practical person in the world, but with him — compared to him — she always seemed to be. Wistful, quixotic: these weren’t words he would have used to describe her. Lily was never...absent, or distracted. She was often an undefinable in-between, but James thought he had an instinct for when something was _off_.

“No, not asking for much, am I.” Her gaze turned appraising. “You’re an only child, aren’t you?”

He frowned. “Yeah.” 

Lily was nodding thoughtfully, but seemed disinclined to break her silence. He took it upon himself to continue the conversation.

“So it’s your sister, then?” said James.

“How d’you know I have a sister?” Lily said. A little crease had appeared in her forehead.

James laughed. “I don’t know, I’ve gone to school with you for five and a half years?”

“That’ll do it, I suppose.” The tension hadn’t cleared from Lily’s expression.

James’s mirth faded. “Look, if you don’t want to talk about it, I’m the last person who’s going to push. Here.” He tossed the Cloak at her; she caught the bundle, looking very puzzled indeed. “Take a nap, use it as a pillow. I bet your bag’s stuffed full of homework anyway.”

At that, Lily rolled her eyes, looking much more like her usual self. 

“It is _not_ ,” she said. “Are you sure I can use your…” She was squinting at the Cloak now, and James suddenly wished he had thought his actions through. “What are these, your mum’s drapes?”

“How rude, Evans. Don’t talk about my mum’s drapes,” James said, his cheer masking his relief. She was asking the wrong questions, for once.

Lily went pink. “No — _James_ , for God’s sake—” She dropped the bundle to the seat and put her head down. “This is comfortable. Thank you. I mean, I probably won’t sleep anyway.”

“Right. Your insomnia. Well, Remus can do without _one_ , I suppose…” He rummaged in his satchel.

“One what?” Lily was giving him a very suspicious look.

James grinned. “Honestly, it’s like you don’t trust me.” Pulling out the box at the bottom of the bag, he tossed it at her. “Catch.”

She yelped and threw her hands up in front of her face; the box landed safely in her lap.

“They’re not going to eat you.” James leaned back in his seat, feeling very satisfied indeed. “Go on, open it. But just one, right? They’re supposed to be for Remus.”

Still frowning, Lily worked the box open. “Oh...chocolates?”

James nodded. “Dad laced them with a really mild sleeping draught for Remus — for when he’s feeling unwell.”

The full moon was nearly upon them; James had been looking forward to presenting them to Remus in the Hospital Wing the morning after his transformation. All Fleamont knew was that Remus was an insomniac, and rather sickly — which were not _lies_ , really, but vague enough that James hadn’t revealed anything of his friend’s actual condition.

“You want me to eat a spiked chocolate,” said Lily slowly.

“Well, when you put it like that…”

“Oh, I’m desperate enough.” And before he could say anything else, Lily popped a square of chocolate into her mouth. “If there’s any side effects, I’ll kill you.” She tipped her head back, staring up at the ceiling. Then she half-sat up once more, twisting her hair out of the way.

James was suddenly uncomfortable at the thought of her lying there, and him sitting here — awkwardly watching? If she fell asleep, he would definitely feel like he was spying. But if she stayed awake, would they sit in comfortable silence instead? Neither possibility gave him confidence.

“What am I supposed to do while you sleep?” he said.

“You could also sleep.”

“Pass.”

Lily rolled her eyes, sat up again, and pulled a book from her bag. “Catch.”

James was ready; he snatched it out of the air and peered at its cover. “ _Sense and Sensibility?”_

“You could do with a little sense _and_ a little sensibility,” said Lily, now sounding decidedly amused. 

She turned on her side to face him, and James was suddenly very interested in what this Jane Austen had to say. 

“You’re supposed to close your eyes, you know,” he said over the top of the novel.

“Ha ha.” 

But she did, and he lifted the book again. _The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex_ … He could think of it as an exercise in Muggle Studies, he told himself. An exercise in...inattention, carelessness, thoughtlessness, all things James had at one time or another been accused of (unfairly, he thought).

Now he was going to be very inattentive of Lily, and he would not care about the fact that she was in this compartment with him, and he would not think about what she looked like, perfectly at peace. Instead he would be very attentive, careful, and thoughtful to the...the story of the Dashwoods. 

He checked the book’s jacket and frowned. Was he going to need to get through a whole family saga before Elinor and Marianne appeared? In the process he caught a glimpse of Lily, hand under her cheek, eyes shut, mouth still slightly pinched in worry.

James let out an embarrassed cough and angled himself away from her. At his cough she stirred; he was reassured, somehow, to know she hadn’t fallen asleep already, and so he hadn’t been watching her sleep — although he had sort of looked at her and she’d had her eyes closed, so was it functionally the same thing?

“Are you reading?” said Lily. 

James shot her a panicked look, but she still had her eyes closed. “Shh, this Elinor bird’s just come in, and I’m told she has an excellent heart.”

Lily gave a derisive snort, but said nothing else. James turned towards the window, putting his feet up on the seat, and continued to read.

Lily woke with a start; it was dark outside the window of her train compartment. 

“I was just going to wake you up,” James said. “We’re pulling into Hogsmeade.”

“Right,” Lily said faintly.

Wincing, she stood up and stretched. She’d slept more soundly than she had expected to. It was a good thing she’d come wearing her uniform, she realised, or she would have been in some trouble. She had forgotten all about finding her friends, and Mary had her trunk. _Oh, well_ , she thought, _it'll make its way up to the castle one way or another_.

“Did the chocolate help?” 

Her attention snapped back to James. “Oh. Yes, thank you.” She didn’t think she could have slept at all without it, in fact. It had been a sweet gesture: chocolate, and sleep, just like her hot cocoa that night last term… 

She folded up the odd blanket sort of thing he’d given her, marvelling at it for a moment. It was so silky, and light — like water, almost. She couldn’t imagine it keeping anyone warm. James cleared his throat. Embarrassed, Lily realised she’d been staring at it, and hurriedly returned it to him.

He gave her a crooked smile. “You can have this back, too.” He handed her _Sense and Sensibility_. “If you ask me, Marianne is a bit of a headcase, and Edward Ferrars felt too noble to be real. But it was a good way to pass the time.”

Lily returned his smile, a touch incredulous. “You finished it?”

“I _can_ read, you know.” He slid the compartment door open, shaking his head. “You give me so little credit.”

She laughed, grabbing her bookbag. “Maybe I do. It’s a shame my mum has the superior Austen novels right now, or I’d lend those to you. Or, wait — I do have _Persuasion_ at school, I think—” She’d sadly neglected that one in favour of _Pride and Prejudice_ ; Lily could barely remember its events.

James had stepped into the corridor; at this, he peered back at her. “ _Persuasion?_ Sounds kinky.”

 _“James!”_ Lily said, her outraged tone of voice completely countered by her laughter. 

She followed him out of the carriage and into the frigid night, still grinning despite herself. They had both paused by the carriage door instead of moving with the flood of students towards the castle. 

“Thanks for the company,” Lily said, finding she meant it quite sincerely.

James had been busy looking very pleased with his crack about _Persuasion_ ; he arched a brow. “You were asleep for most of it.”

“Yes, well…”

“Don’t mention it, Evans. Anyway, your bloke’s waiting for you.”

“My—” Lily turned around. To her surprise, a familiar figure was standing on the platform, squinting at the train.

“Lily,” Dex called. “I tried looking for you — you weren’t with your friends on the train, and those Aurors—”

Relief nearly bowled her over. The tense stretch at the end of the holidays felt like a bad dream now, with his grinning face in sight and his hand held out to her. 

“See you in the common room,” she said over her shoulder — but James had melted away into the crowd. Lily frowned a little at the sudden disappearance, but shook it off. If anything, she ought to start taking James at face value; no more reading into what he said or what he did around her. And then Dex was by her side.

Lily gave him a kiss, looping her arm through his. She had simply been alone for too long, and Petunia had been getting to her. That was all. She was an overthinker. But she had to be sure—

“We’re all right, aren’t we?” said Lily.

Dex gave her a quizzical smile. “’Course we are. Why wouldn’t we be?”

There it was. It was just a silly misunderstanding.

“No reason, I’m being ridiculous. Come on, I fell asleep on the train and I’m _starving_ —” 

In the distance, the castle’s bright lights winked at them. Everything she’d been apprehensive about would turn out not that bad. Lily was sure of it now.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't want to post this chapter until i'd written the next one, but i feel ive left you all hanging for too long! planting these dramatic seeds was so very fun, and i can't wait until they pay off :) leave me a comment or a kudo if you enjoyed, and thank you so much, as always, for reading!
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	14. For Enemies / Like A Rolling Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Sirius and Regulus argue about the family cat, which their awful mother has mayyybe killed. The Marauders suspect a group of Slytherins are practising Dark magic at night and get them busted once, but can't find them again. 
> 
> NOW: Sirius gets a letter. The girls trade gossip, trying to untangle the web of who's seeing who after Evan's party. Severus Snape makes it a choice — or was it a choice he'd already made?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's on the short side, but getting some plotty things out of the way! This chapter contains references to an emotionally manipulative friendship (I wonder who...), an abusive parent (I wonder who again!), and mentions of animal abuse. Proceed with caution!

_i. Like A Rolling Stone_

“I think Pomfrey knows about the chocolates,” James said, manoeuvring his way to the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall.

It was a frosty January morning; the school’s populace had not yet adjusted to classes after the Christmas holiday, and the hall was full of bleary, sleep-drawn faces. He and Sirius were nothing short of perky — the sort of wired that came from a night of running around the grounds in their Animagus forms, and would lead to an early crash that evening. 

“Nah, how could she?” Sirius said as he snagged a slice of toast from a platter. 

“I don’t know, maybe because Moony slept better than he ever has—” James paused, lowered his voice, and adjusted course. “Better than he ever has when he’s ill.”

Remus was, in fact, still asleep. That was why the boys had left only Peter to keep him company; the profoundly important job of retrieving breakfast was a task for two, they’d agreed. It helped too that James could keep an eye on Sirius this way. He thought Peter’s worries were by and large unfounded — Sirius was in a great mood right now, after all.

But the last time their friend had kept things to himself, Snape had ended up at the Whomping Willow. James did not anticipate a repeat occurrence, but he supposed sticking close to his best mate wasn’t much of an imposition anyway.

“What’s it matter?” Sirius shrugged. “It’s not like it hurts him.”

“Try telling _her_ that.” Never mind that there was no treatment for Remus’s condition; Pomfrey insisted on monitoring just about everything he did in the days preceding and succeeding the full moon. Technically speaking, Remus was supposed to be eating some horrible gruel for breakfast. James would rather not raise her suspicions.

“I will if she asks,” Sirius said, grinning.

The sixth-year girls were all at breakfast save for Lily. Mary waved at the boys, and they waved back. The post had not yet arrived. James straddled the bench and got a slice of toast himself. Dumbledore wasn’t at breakfast, he noted, and neither were the Aurors on the Hogsmeade case.

There were three, as it turned out — Hartwick, the lead investigator, a stout, short woman with a sun-weathered face and close-cropped silver hair, Podmore, and Shacklebolt, a trainee. James vaguely remembered him as he had been at Hogwarts, a tall, reedy Ravenclaw. Auror training had turned him broad-shouldered, but he still had a good-humoured look about him. James had mentally filed him away as a safe Auror to get in trouble around, along with Frank and Marlene and perhaps Alice. But there was no sign of him.

Edgar Bones was eating at the teachers’ table, deep in conversation with Sprout; Alice was walking up and down the hall, her gaze flicking over the students. James locked eyes with her and waved his toast. She smiled, ever so slightly, in return.

“Finally!” Sirius stood up as the Great Hall was filled with the rustling and hooting of arriving owls. His cheer soon faded; an envelope dropped onto the table in front of him. James could read the return address, scrawled with obvious impatience. It was from Walburga Black.

To his surprise, Sirius pushed the letter his way. “Would you open it?” He looked impassive on the surface, but James could see the rigid tension in his shoulders. He was relieved Sirius had asked; he wouldn’t have thought to offer it, but right away it seemed like the obvious, correct thing to do.

James tore open the envelope. The only thing inside was a photograph; it took him a moment to process what he was seeing. It was moving, a magical photograph of a cat, hanging by its tail. He flinched and dropped the photo as he realised the cat was dead. 

“What?” Sirius snatched up the fallen photo before James could stop him. There was a note on the back, but James did not get a close enough look at it. Sirius flipped the photo over. James heard his sharp inhale. The perfectly blank expression he wore cracked at last; he was moving a heartbeat later, making for the doors. 

James caught him by the shoulder. “What’s going on?” he asked, his voice an undertone.

Sirius shook him off. “Forget it. I need to talk to Regulus.”

James arched an eyebrow. He didn’t think the brothers would end up _talking_ , but he decided not to say so. Remus or Peter might have tried to stop their friend; not James. Instead he dropped his half-finished toast onto a plate and dusted crumbs off his hands. “Come on, then. I’ll come with you.”

“I need to do this alone.”

There were a hundred things James could say. For one, it was always good to have backup. For another, if Sirius was caught doing anything to his brother, he risked expulsion. But his friend seemed quite beyond logic.

“No, you don’t,” James said simply. “We can drop off breakfast and go find him before Defence.”

“There’s no _time_ ,” Sirius ground out. 

“We’ll make time.” He reached in his pocket for the Marauder’s Map, only to come up short. He realised where it was at the same time Sirius’s hand went to his own pocket. “Padfoot—”

“Don’t come after me,” he said, and he was off like a shot. 

They were just two dots on a map. Two branches on a tapestry. Sirius watched himself get closer and closer to _Regulus Black_ , on the third floor corridor, and felt as though someone else was in his body. Someone else was pushing Regulus up against a wall, holding the photo up to his face; someone else felt the hot curl of anger and disgust and grief when Regulus closed his eyes, cringing away from the picture as if it physically hurt him. 

“Look at it!” Sirius barked. “You saw it happen, didn’t you? Enjoyed yourself?”

Regulus pushed him off. “Don’t be thick—”

“You can’t fake it like you always do. Pretending to be innocent, not as fucked up as your Dark magic loving friends—” The words on the back of the picture made him feel just as sick as the image itself. _Your brother helped_. 

As a rule Sirius did not trust his mother. She lied, she manipulated, she taunted; she could do anything to evoke the right reaction. But this had the ring of truth. He could see it in the sick resignation currently warring with defiance in his brother’s expression. 

No. Not his brother, just like she was _not_ his mother. They were nothing to him anymore, and he to them. 

“You never could think for yourself,” Sirius went on. “You always were her lackey—”

The moment Regulus snapped was clear as day; the very air seemed to change. His shuttered, sickened expression gave way to fury. 

“I am her _son!”_ Regulus spat. “You never were. I don’t owe you a damn thing. You’ll be sorry, sucking up to blood traitors and Mudbloods and nobodies — your precious _Potter_ — The company you keep is disgusting. Evans, Macdonald — she deserved what Mulciber and Avery did to her—”

Sirius thought he’d never been so angry in his life. His blood hummed with it. Regulus was a coward after all; he always had been. Sirius realised this in the same breath as he vowed never to be like him. He could never sit back, take the path of least resistance. He had to fight.

“Shut your mouth,” he said. “You’re a worthless sack of shit, Regulus. Lily Evans could duel you in her sleep.”

And Regulus was reaching for his pocket, withdrawing his wand. Pointing it right at him. Given free choice, what would he do? If they hadn’t been at school, if there would be no consequences whatsoever for his actions? Sirius wondered, for a brief moment, if he was going to die. The thought was gone in an instant. 

“ _Sectum_ —”

Before Regulus could get the rest of the spell out, Sirius had punched him square in the jaw. His wand clattered to the floor. He pressed a hand to his face, eyes wide.

“Learned some new tricks in your little club, did you?” Sirius advanced on him once more. “Do you even know what it does, or do you just do whatever Rosier tells you with your eyes shut?”

Regulus stiffened. “I know what it does! It’s a curse, _Sectumsempra_ , and it’s—”

“Pick up your wand and do it then!” Sirius roared, snatching it up himself and shoving it into Regulus’s hand. He jabbed the tip into his own throat, hard enough to make his eyes water. Regulus offered no resistance, but held the wand steady. “Go on! Make your Death Eater buddies proud, if you’ve got the _balls_ —”

Sirius cut himself off, seeing something harden in Regulus’s gaze. He knew at once that he had gone too far. Wouldn’t it be funny, if Regulus proved himself strong enough to stand up for something by killing him, right there and then? His pulse was pounding in his ears. He was going to die. He was going to _die_. He was going to—

Suddenly they were pushed apart by an invisible force. Sirius’s back slammed into the opposite wall. He was so surprised that he did not immediately look around for the source of the spell; he merely stood there, winded, still staring at Regulus, whose surprised expression mirrored his. It was James, he thought, it had to be. Map or not, his friend had followed him after all. 

“Don’t you have class to get to?”

It was not James. It was Professor Thorpe, and she had directed this question at Regulus, who scowled in response. He mumbled a vague answer.

“Then you’d best get to it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice; Regulus scurried off. Sirius pushed off from the wall, hands in his pockets. 

“I’m not late to your class yet,” he said.

Thorpe trained her steely gaze upon him, lips thinning into a grim line. “Not yet,” she agreed. 

“Then I should be on my way.” 

Sirius didn’t need a telling-off. His throat was still tight with anger; he didn’t trust himself not to argue, and the last thing he ought to do was argue with a teacher. In fact, the _first_ thing he ought to do was apologise. But he couldn’t. He spun around and began walking away.

“Just a moment.”

Sirius froze but did not turn.

“No detentions for you since last February.” Her tone was perfectly flat, stating a fact and nothing more. “That’s got to be a personal record.”

“Just give me my punishment, Professor.” He ignored the queasy feeling in his stomach, both at the memory of last February and at the threat of detention.

“You’re on your last chance.” She was standing next to him, not looking at him. “That’s no secret among the teachers, Black. Brawling in the corridors seems a good deal more serious than starting a food fight.”

Sirius said nothing. He found he was braced for her next words, ready for the blow to fall.

Thorpe rocked back on her heels and sighed. “We understand each other. Let’s not call it detention. But I expect to see you at Duelling Club, setting a good example for your peers.”

“It’s already mandatory,” Sirius said, breaking his own resolve to stay silent. “I read the notice.”

“I didn’t see the _setting a good example_ part on the notice,” Thorpe said dryly. She shook her sleeve away from her wrist, checked her watch, and nodded to herself. “Well. Get to class before I do.”

“I — yeah.” Was some sort of thanks in order? Sirius wondered how many last chances one person deserved. One person, who wasn’t perfect — wasn’t even particularly good, most of the time. “Yeah, I won’t be late.”

They started in opposite directions, then paused again.

“The classroom’s this way,” said Thorpe, tilting her head.

Sirius coughed, racking his brain for an explanation that didn’t involve the secret staircase he was most definitely headed for. “Forgot something in Gryffindor Tower,” he said.

“Huh,” was all Thorpe said in response. She knelt to pick something up — the photo, Sirius realised, and his stomach turned once more. “This yours?”

“No. I don’t — you can get rid of it.”

She had her wand out in an instant, and the photo was on fire the next moment. There was no ash left behind. It could as well have been a figment of his imagination.

“I’m not a pity case,” Sirius said, finding his voice after a long silence.

Thorpe gave an aggrieved sigh. “You now have six minutes to get to my class, Black.” And then she was striding off. Sirius left too, without a backward glance. He arrived at the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom four minutes later, sliding into the empty seat beside James.

Peter passed him his bookbag. “You’re _welcome_ ,” he said in an undertone. Sirius gave him a faint smile just as Thorpe strode in, calling out instructions.

As the class’s murmured conversation faded to the rustle of quills and parchment, Sirius could feel James’s gaze on him.

“What?” he whispered.

James shook his head. “Nothing.”

He understood that James had not come after him — had listened to him — and he also understood the subtext of it. _Fine, but this is the last time_. 

He knew how to make chances count. 

* * *

_ii. A Brief Spin of the Hogwarts Rumour Mill, earlier that morning_

“They made _Duelling Club_ mandatory?”

Mary, Germaine, and Dorcas stood in the Entrance Hall, squinting at a notice pinned there. This outburst, coming from Mary, drew the stares of several onlookers.

“Well, not mandatory for everyone,” said Germaine, frowning. “Sixth and seventh years only.”

Mary gave her a look. “Seeing as how we’re sixth years, Germaine, that’s the bit I care about. It’s basically an extra class now! They’re testing us on it in Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts, see? Oh, I hate practical magic.”

Doe was none too pleased at this prospect either, but she seized both her friends by the elbows and hauled them into breakfast. “I wonder if it’s because of the murders — it has to be, right?” She cast a glance at the teachers’ table; Dumbledore was gone, and so were the Hogsmeade investigators.

“Can they do that? Make us do self-defence?” Germaine poured herself pumpkin juice and slurped a mouthful. “I’d imagine some parents aren’t too pleased. Like, the sort of parents who know an awful lot about the Dark Mark.” She looked pointedly at the Slytherin table.

“Maybe Crouch will take credit. Preventative protection, isn’t it?” 

“Why aren’t you over the moon? You spent all September complaining about people too thick to realise the importance of Defence class,” observed Mary.

“I do think it’s important!” Dorcas said. “But this way I have to compete with _everyone_ for the Aurors’ attention.” She sighed, her shoulders slumping at the very thought. “How am I supposed to impress them?”

“You’ll impress them just fine.” Germaine squeezed her shoulder. “You impress everyone. I mean, you’re top of our Defence class anyway—”

“But not Charms, and there’ll be duelling material in Charms class too—” 

Doe rubbed at her temples. She could not give herself a headache this early in the morning, not when Defence was their first class of the day. If only the Aurors could have come to give out career advice! She felt terribly childish and selfish for even thinking it. Of course everything would be better if two people hadn’t _died_ and she could pick Frank Longbottom’s brain all day. 

“Change the subject, quick, before she spirals,” Mary said.

“Be nice,” Germaine shot back. “But really, we do have to talk about the elephant in the room. Or, the elephant _not_ in the room.” At her friends’ confused expressions, she made a noise of impatience. “The Lily not in the room?”

Doe frowned, sitting up once more. “She told me to let her sleep in.”

“Big mistake,” Mary said. “Now she’ll be tripping over herself trying to get ready on time.”

“She looked so tired!” Doe protested. “Honestly, it’s like she didn’t rest at all over the holiday — do you think everything’s all right with her?”

“I can’t think what _wouldn’t_ be all right,” Germaine began. “But then again, some problems are easily hidden.”

Doe felt another burst of remorse. She still couldn’t quite believe they’d gone so long unaware of Germaine’s troubles at home. She’d always done her best to be a shoulder to cry on, a helping hand and a welcoming embrace. Was she falling short of that, somehow, with her closest friends? But it had taken a spat with Mary for her to explain something as minor as her romantic frustrations. Maybe they could all do better. She only hoped it wouldn’t take something big and painful again for them to realise it.

“We should ask her,” Doe said. “Point-blank, I mean.”

“Dreamboat Dex isn’t at breakfast either,” Mary said. She was squinting over at the Hufflepuff table; Germaine and Doe followed suit.

“I think you’re right,” Germaine said, after a few minutes of squinting.

“You don’t think they’re together, like, in _bed?”_ Dorcas said, her voice a squeak on the last word.

Mary gave her a surprised look. “Well, I didn’t earlier, but now I’m considering it.”

“Yeah, right. If Lily’s getting ten extra minutes of sleep in the morning, she’s spending it _sleeping_.” Germaine turned back to her breakfast, having dismissed this possibility out of hand.

“Well, maybe,” said Mary, looking unconvinced.

Doe sighed. “Don’t say something awkward to her, Mare.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean!”

“Oh, you know what I mean!” She searched the Hufflepuff table for something new to talk about, and was quite quickly rewarded. “How about Cecily and Chris, right?”

Mary snorted. “Yeah, _that’s_ not going to last.”

“Why not?” said Germaine.

“Because Florence is in love with him, obviously. I don’t know _how_ Cecily doesn’t know yet.” 

“Didn’t you say Florence was kissing Michael Meadowes at King’s Cross?” 

Doe had fallen silent, watching this exchange with amusement. 

“Well—” Mary’s eyes went wide. “Florence is using Michael to make Chris jealous!” She said this in the manner of someone making a great discovery. 

“Oh, don’t speculate,” Doe said, laughing at Mary’s stunned expression. 

“You brought it up! You should tell your friend, he should know he’s being used.”

Dorcas rolled her eyes at the special weight Mary gave the word _friend_. Before she could reply, though, Germaine said sourly, “Yeah, no one likes being used.”

“What’s that about?” Mary said, snapping to attention.

Doe turned to Germaine too, searching her expression for the root of her bitterness. But there was none — none that she could identify. _If she wants to tell us she will_ , Doe reminded herself.

“Nothing,” Germaine said, true to form. She had gone back to looking at the other tables; Doe thought she was looking for something else to talk about too. “I don’t think Doc and Marissa are going together, Mare.”

Mary hushed her loudly just as Sara sat down.

“Marissa?” Sara repeated, looking from Mary to Germaine. Her eyes were alight with excitement. “I heard she took a bloke home from Evan’s.”

“She took half the crowd home from Evan’s, technically speaking,” said Germaine.

Sara ignored this. “Well, it can’t have been Doc Dearborn, if that’s what you were thinking.”

“How do you figure that?” said Doe, her eyebrows arched in what she hoped was polite interest.

It was Mary who answered. “Because Doc is Evan’s friend, and he stayed at his place for the night.”

“Oh,” Doe said mildly.

“Oh!” said Germaine, as gleefully as if she fancied Doc herself. 

Sara looked between them, confusion colouring her smile. “I’m missing something, aren’t I?”

“Nothing,” Mary assured her. “Besides, we shouldn’t speculate. Oh, morning, James, Sirius.”

* * *

_iii. For Enemies_

Severus Snape far preferred silence when in company. There were few exceptions to this rule. Well, there was _one_ exception to this rule. 

Had been. There had been one exception to this rule, and she was no longer the exception. That was how it was going to be, from now on. Anyway, she wouldn’t have wanted to talk to him, if it were just them, walking through the castle corridors like they used to.

Or, no, that wasn’t true. She would be interrogating him about something or the other. That was the new state of things, wasn’t it? He gritted his teeth, and pushed the thought away. Luckily Mulciber was prattling on about something or the other — the latest in a long list of gripes.

Usually Mulciber had easy solutions to his own problems, and to others’: magic, preferably violent. A chatty first year in the way? Hex. Filch’s bloody cat snooping where she shouldn’t be? Hex. He didn’t always carry out these solutions, but Severus thought it was only a matter of time before he did so routinely. 

Once, when he and Lily had argued over some stupid thing, in fifth year — long before the day by the Lake — Severus had returned to the Slytherin common room in a foul mood. 

“Why are you so grim?” Thalia had asked, scowling at him like his temper offended her.

“His Mudblood friend,” Avery said offhandedly. “Why else? She angry at you again, Snape?”

Severus glowered at him, making no response. He supposed that was an accurate description of how things had ended. But Lily would cool off and apologise. She always did. 

“If you ask me, you ought to get around to dumping her.” Thalia’s eyes glittered with malice.

“If you ask _me_ , you can just make it so she’s not angry at you anymore,” said Mulciber, rolling his eyes as if the very suggestion bored him.

That had stopped Severus short. “Make — how?”

Mulciber had exchanged a glance with Avery and laughed. “Don’t be thick, Snape. You know how.”

“I’d be expelled,” Severus pointed out.

Another laugh. “Not if you don’t get _caught_ ,” Avery said. 

He hadn’t, of course. Tried to compel Lily to do anything. But he knew they thought less of him for it. They had all practised at least one of the Unforgivables already — Rosier, Mulciber, and Avery, that was; Thalia called them inelegant.

Severus was inclined to agree. But she had the family pedigree to render her opinion on the matter irrelevant. Her elder brother had already joined up. He, Severus, was the one being tested, constantly.

He was pulled out of the memory by Mulciber’s rising voice.

“—coming to Ravenclaw Tower on his _summons_ , like he gives us orders—”

Severus realised he’d been silent too long. Any longer and Mulciber would be shouting, unchecked, and then half of Hogwarts would hear what they got up to. 

“Rosier gets the owls. If you have an issue, you can take it up with _him_ directly,” Severus said in an undertone.

Mulciber gave him a poisonous look. “The owls don’t come from _him_.”

“The owls _do_ come from Rosier’s brother.”

“Just because Marius is—”

“He said this one is important,” Severus interrupted. “A proper one. So we’ll only know the truth if we go find out.”

They had arrived at the eagle door knocker that led to the Ravenclaw common room. Mulciber groaned at the sight of it.

“I fucking hate this. Rosier gets off on it, putting us through a test just so we can hear what his brother’s saying—”

“Rosier gets off on it just as much as Helena Ravenclaw, I imagine.” 

Severus knocked, and the eagle said, “If every part of a ship is replaced, does it remain the same ship?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Mulciber said, aiming a kick at the wall. “Merlin. Who cares about ships?”

“Shut up and let me think how to phrase this,” Severus said, finally snapping. He frowned at the knocker, and had just opened his mouth to respond when—

“I’m just as much myself for all the cells I’ve lost and regrown,” said a voice from behind them.

The witch who’d spoken was short and curly-haired, obviously young. She seemed oblivious to the glower on Mulciber’s face. The door swung open at her answer. Severus felt, despite himself, faintly impressed. The two Slytherins followed the girl inside.

“What’s a _cell?”_ hissed Mulciber, eyeing the girl with suspicion.

“It’s a Muggle thing,” said Severus, distracted. He was searching the common room for Rosier; it took him a moment to realise Mulciber had his wand out. “What’s wrong with you? Are you going to hex her in front of a horde of Ravenclaws?”

“She won’t know if she’s been Imperiused.”

Severus felt cold. Had Mulciber been thinking of the same conversation, from a year ago? No, that was unlikely. Odds were the other boy just had his mind on the Imperius Curse, like always. 

“And what exactly are you going to make her do?”

Mulciber stowed his wand away, but his smirk remained. “You’re spineless, Snape.” 

He said this so casually that Severus’s blood boiled. What did Mulciber know? He was a curse-happy sociopath. He didn’t know anything about subtlety or caution or patience. He kept silent, though, following Mulciber to where Rosier sat in the corner of the room. Avery and Sebastian Selwyn were in chairs beside him, each looking almost comically serious. 

“Finally,” Rosier drawled. 

Mulciber flopped into a seat. “No Rowle and Black?”

Rosier twitched; he did not like to be questioned. “They’re young.”

“Selwyn’s young,” Severus pointed out. 

Rosier’s lips thinned. “If you’ll let me get on with it.”

Severus sat down and said no more. 

Rosier leaned forward, a letter clutched in his fist. There was a cold fire in his gaze, a fire Severus was normally unimpressed by but now found himself oddly drawn to. 

“They have a job for us. A real one. They need people inside the castle.”

“To do what?” Severus said.

Rosier cracked a humourless smile. “You don’t back out after this. Any of you.”

Selwyn was already nodding. Mulciber was rolling his eyes like the statement didn’t merit an answer. After a beat of hesitation, Avery was murmuring acknowledgment too. All four of them looked at Severus. He himself did not feel any climactic moment of choice. His answer was as obvious as the others’.

“Tell us what they want us to do,” said Severus.

Peter, James, and Sirius had a free period first thing in the afternoon. As they trooped back to the Hospital Wing, where Remus still was, the inane chatter of lunch gave way to silence. It was their first opportunity to discuss what had happened after breakfast.

James had filled in Peter and Remus on Walburga’s horrible owl, but Sirius had carefully avoided mentioning his confrontation with Regulus — or how Thorpe had been lenient with him. He’d thought his foul mood was fading, but perhaps that had simply been because of the distraction classes provided. Now, alone with his thoughts, the memory of the photo swam before his mind’s eye.

No. Not alone. When they reached the Hospital Wing Remus was sitting upright, wearing a wan smile.

“Snuck more of the chocolate?” James said in an undertone, a grin spreading across his face.

“Only a little. I don’t want Pomfrey to worry.”

The matron was nowhere in sight; the boys clustered around Remus’s bed, occupying their usual positions without discussion. Uncharacteristic silence fell.

“What did Regulus say?” Remus said finally. His voice was still hoarse from the night before; Sirius almost winced to hear it.

“A load of shit,” muttered Sirius. Then he remembered that he _did_ have interesting news — news he was more comfortable discussing. “He let slip one of the spells his little Dark Arts study group have been using, though.” 

Remus and Peter frowned; James sat up straighter. “You didn’t say. Did he—”

“He didn’t get to use it. So I’ve got no idea what it does.”

“Oh.”

Something white and soft came flying at him, hitting him in the face. “What the—” Sirius just managed to bat the pillow away. “What the fuck?”

“Sorry,” said Peter, flushing a bright red. “I thought you’d catch it — you can try it on the pillow.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “What if it doesn’t work? What if it needs to be cast on a living thing?” He thought of the night they had found the Slytherins casting spells on little animals; the memory of their shrill cries twisted his mouth into a grimace.

“Then we’ll know that, at least,” Remus said.

“You don’t have to,” said James, the distaste clear on his face. “It doesn’t bloody matter what they do — it’s not like we’re going to use their spells against them.” 

Sirius saw his point, but he thought he had to know. He had to be able to properly face what Regulus could do, what any of them could do. He stood and set the pillow down on the bed opposite Remus’s, across the aisle — a safe distance, he hoped. He glanced at Pomfrey’s office last of all.

“She’s out,” Remus said. “Don’t worry.”

“Right.” Sirius cleared his throat and faced the pillow. He could feel his friends staring at him. He raised his wand, mimicking what little he could remember of the slashing movement Regulus had used, and said, “ _Sectumsempra_.”

The pillow ripped right in half; the sound of it was deafening in the silent infirmary. A few feathers floated to the floor. Sirius’s heart was stuck somewhere in his throat. He remembered the pressure of Regulus’s wand against his neck. He had not wanted to die; he _did not_ want to die. How close had he really been to being rent open, just like the pillow?

“Well,” said Remus with a lightness that was not at all reflected in his wary expression, “I suppose we know what it does.”

A rustle, footsteps in the corridor outside; James had sprung to his feet. With a gesture he Vanished the pillow entirely, down to the scattered feathers. He was tight-lipped with fury, Sirius saw, so angry that his wand arm shook as he lowered it. 

“They’re fucking crazy,” James muttered. “They’re— _Christ_.”

“Pomfrey will notice the missing pillow,” Peter said, his voice high with fear.

Somehow this very ordinary concern brought Sirius back to reality. He reclaimed his seat, giving Peter a quelling look.

“Relax. It’s just a pillow. She won’t notice, and even if she does, it’s not like we could’ve done something terrible with a _pillow_.”

After a long moment, James sat down again too. “It’s not a spell any of you have heard before, is it?”

“I’m not really familiar with this sort of spell,” said Remus dryly.

James adjusted his spectacles, leaning forward as he spoke. “What I mean is — if one of them created it, it has to have been Snape.”

“Come off it.” Peter was looking more worried by the moment. “Snape’s— He’s a slimeball, but he’s not—”

“He’s done it before, hasn’t he? _Levicorpus_ , _Muffliato_ ,” James said.

“But...this is different.”

“Exactly,” Sirius said grimly. He expected no better of _Snivellus_. “Dark curses are just his sort of thing. And if dear Reg’s learned it, you can expect that all their posse knows it too.”

Remus’s frown had turned meditative. “I would guess a Shield Charm still works against it — _Protego Maxima_ , at the very least—”

But Sirius wasn’t listening. Something had clicked into place at last: the bloody gash in the photo he’d been trying so hard not to think about, the way Regulus had turned to this specific curse when confronted with the photo…

“He used it on the cat,” Sirius said, not realising he’d spoken aloud until his friends all turned to look at him. “ _Sectumsempra_. He used it on the cat, on Heathcliff, that was how—” He broke off, sucking in a deep breath, and pressed a hand to his forehead.

The others exchanged glances. 

“Yeah, about the cat,” Peter began, looking more surprised than anyone to have spoken first.

Sirius looked up. His expression was one of such misery that his friends thought, all at once, he was going to cry. They’d never seen it, not properly — not unless you counted the time in third year when Sirius had taken a nasty Bludger to the arm, and had howled when Pomfrey reset the bone. (He himself claimed for years afterwards that his eyes had been involuntarily watering.) 

But this wasn’t like that. This was real, even realer than the loss of an uncle Sirius had expected, deep down, to have to bid goodbye to soon. This was sudden and sharp, like a knife between the ribs, made even worse by the hands that had done it.

But Sirius blinked, and whatever wetness there might have been in his eyes was gone.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely, “the cat.”

“I still can’t believe you named a female cat _Heathcliff_ ,” said Remus, not quite smiling at his own jibe.

Sirius appreciated the attempt nonetheless, and summoned a half-hearted smile of his own. “I named her before I knew, and it’d already stuck. Besides, what mattered was that it was a Muggle character.”

All the better to infuriate Walburga. Sirius felt another sting of regret. If he’d tried to tick her off less, might she have let the cat alone? But there was no point wondering anymore. 

James coughed. “We should have a wake.”

“A — a what?”

“You know. A service, for the cat. Something to remember her by.” He looked terribly awkward for a moment — rare, for James.

Sirius blinked. It was an absurd idea, but it was oddly appealing. Why should his last image of the cat be one that Walburga had conjured up? The more he thought about it the more he liked it.

“Yeah. Yeah, why not?”

They smiled at one another, quiet for just one more moment.

“What did I miss in class all morning?” said Remus at last, settling back against the pillows.

“You want to know the interesting stuff, or what homework we have?” James said.

“Why can’t I have both?”

“Yeah, right, be honest, Moony—”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew, i don't love writing from snape's pov but i hope i succeeded in sowing some seeds that make it seem like he thinks what he's doing is ok even though it is very much not. any guesses as to what marius rosier is going to get them to do?
> 
> this chapter title is a holdover from when i thought the whomping willow incident would be in this fic lol — i liked it so much i had to keep it. "like a rolling stone" is my personal era-appropriate sirius song for ooooobvious reasons ("how does it feel / to be without a home / like a complete unknown" i mean) and i wrote this chapter to that song and my personal snape song... which... i am particularly proud of my choice with that one, and i will get to it sometime in the next three months in the fic's timeline! 
> 
> anyway, i am a bit behind on outlining/drafting so i will try and catch up a bit more before dropping the next chapter! i can tell you there are still some mysteries from evan's party that will need resolving... i will be very impressed if any of you guesses haha
> 
> hope everyone's holding up ok still! stay safe everyone
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	15. Extracurricular Activities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: The Aurors at Hogwarts institute a mandatory Duelling Club in the wake of the Hogsmeade murders and the ill-fated Slytherin dark magic group from last term. But the Marauders suspect the Slytherins, plus Alec Rosier, are still at it. Mary thinks Doc Dearborn underestimates her intelligence. Lily is still uncertain where things stand with her and Dex.
> 
> NOW: It's time for Duelling Club! Lily asks James for help. Mary and co. stop by Amelia Bones's book club. Mulciber and Avery are taught a lesson, some months after the offence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That'll teach me not to update without having some more chapters written... Anyway, we are back and ready to go! Note that this chapter makes reference to Mulciber and Avery's fifth-year attack on Mary; I am not quite sure how I would phrase that content warning, but tread carefully. 
> 
> And please, please leave me a comment or kudos!

_i. The Amelia Bones Book Club_

Mary stared down at the book in her hands with a grim resolve. “It’s a good day to face your nemesis.”

Dorcas and Germaine exchanged glances. The two of them had no real opinion on Amelia Bones, but they had spent the better part of two years hearing Mary’s. Never mind that in Doe’s mind Amelia _had_ sort of had the moral high ground to start in this feud. At this point the bad blood was so complicated that neither was blameless.

It had begun in fourth year, when Amelia had been seeing Chris Townes — until Mary kissed him. Amelia had never forgotten the grudge, even though she didn’t even like Chris that much. Mary grumbled that it wasn’t _her_ business to keep track of other people’s relationship statuses, and in any case, it was awfully convenient that Amelia had forgiven _Chris_ , who’d actually made a commitment to her. And the rest was history.

Germaine said, “Nose goes.”

Doe’s jaw dropped. “You’re not allowed to _nose goes_ this!” Turning to Mary, she said, “Sara’s going to be there. Do we have to come?”

“Sara actually likes Amelia. Come on, just back me up for one afternoon.”

Germaine was shaking her head fervently. “No, no, I really can’t be there. Really, really, really.” Emmeline Vance was Amelia’s closest friend, after all. Germaine knew she was not ready to face her — not so soon after her embarrassing blow-up on the train.

“Three reallys,” Doe groaned. “You know I can’t say no to an invocation of _three_ reallys.” But keeping the peace between Mary and Amelia was too big a job for just her. “I’ll come, but I need backup.” She glanced around the common room.

Lily, who had not looked up all this time from her Potions essay, did so now. “I wish I could be your backup, really, but—”

“But Dex.” Doe gave her a pat on the arm. “I understand. I will eventually find it in my heart to forgive you.”

Lily pursed her lips. “Are you certain? I can tell him we’ll meet after Duelling Club instead—”

“No, honestly, don’t cancel on my account—” Mary said.

“ _She_ gets a choice?” Doe protested.

“Oh, no, if you’re not meeting Dex we are doing homework together,” Germaine cut in. “Get in line, Mare.”

“Lily is meeting her boyfriend,” said Mary with an air of finality.

Though the details of what had happened hadn’t yet been discussed, the girls were not blind to the strange mood Lily had been in of late. If it took a conversation with Dex — Mary used a phrase more choice than _conversation_ , and was shushed by Germaine and Doe at once — to return things to normal, her friends would make sure it happened.

Lily looked between them, frowning. “If you’re sure.”

“Sure as eggs,” said Mary cheerfully. “Come on, Doe, the clock’s ticking.”

Dorcas sighed — then brightened. “I’ve got my backup.” She bounced to her feet and wove through the common room to where Remus Lupin sat in an armchair, nose buried in a textbook. “All right, Remus?”

In her estimation he looked tired, but when did Remus _not_ look tired? He offered her a faint smile. “Right as can be. Did you need something?”

Oh, dear, was she that transparent? 

“I have an exciting offer for you, actually,” said Doe. 

From the next chair over, Sirius straightened and peered at her. “What’s the offer?”

“It’s not for _you_ , Black, so stop eavesdropping.”

“That only makes me more likely to eavesdrop.”

“Ignore him,” said Remus, rolling his eyes. “What’s the offer?”

“You get entertainment for one afternoon, and all you have to do is come with me and Mary!” Doe held out her arms, as if to say _ta da!_

Remus frowned. “That’s a very vague offer.”

Doe let her hands drop. “All right, Mary wants to go to some ridiculous book club Amelia Bones does, and she wants me to go along as referee, but I can’t do it alone. You’re very diplomatic. So…”

“What’s in it for Moony?” Sirius interrupted.

“Sirius!” 

“Really, what’s in it for me?” said Remus, smiling wider now. Sirius whooped.

“Entertainment?” Doe said again helplessly. “Oh, that isn’t good enough, is it? You get — er—”

Remus snapped his book shut, laughing. “Only messing. I could use an interesting afternoon.”

“That’s offensive,” said Sirius.

Dorcas rocked back on her heels, immensely relieved. “Thank Merlin. You’re the best. Come on, we can’t be late — although, we can’t be early either, because Mary does _not_ need the extra time to stare Amelia down—”

There was no need to be nervous. None whatsoever. Hadn’t Dex said things were fine between them? She ought to take him at face value. But Lily Evans was a worrier. She’d had about five minutes of peace, she thought — the length of their journey back up to school from Hogsmeade Station, when she’d been able to convince herself that something had been irreversibly changed when they’d slept together.

Or, that was a lie. She’d felt surprisingly at peace on the train too, talking to James of all people. And the chocolate had been a help. Standing outside the Hufflepuff common room, wand poised over the right barrel, Lily wished she could have gone back to the train compartment. Things had been by no means simple — but resolving her problems had been a task for future Lily. 

Of course, today she _was_ that future Lily.

Well, there was nothing to do but plunge ahead. She tapped her wand to the barrel and pushed through the door. 

Dex was sitting at a table, barely visible over stacks of books. Lily slid into the seat opposite him, pulling out her own essay. It was a solid minute before he looked up and noticed her; red splotches of embarrassment blossomed in his cheeks.

“Lily. Sorry, Merlin, I honestly didn’t see you.”

She smiled, though a small, bitter part of her added this insult to everything else. It did seem like he _honestly didn’t see her_ , of late. 

“It’s all right. There are worse things to come second to than—” She leaned forward, reading what he was working on. “—Golpalott’s Laws. I’m guessing the N.E.W.T. homework hasn’t let up, yet?”

Dex set aside his parchment and ran a hand over his face. “No, and I don’t think it will until we actually sit the bloody exams. I underestimated the pressure.”

She rested her chin in one hand, studying him. “You’ll do well. You’re working so hard.”

“I wouldn’t care half as much if not for—”

“—culinary school. I know.” Lily put a hand over his and squeezed. “There’s no point worrying about it constantly. You’ll do what has to be done.” What sage advice, she thought, and she couldn’t even take it herself.

Dex returned her smile. “Sorry, I’ve started us off on such a bad note.”

“It _is_ a study date. Complaining about studying is always on the agenda.” Lily found she could keep her tone light. She could feel her anxiety ebbing away, as it so often did in his presence. She was overthinking after all. Conjuring problems where there weren’t any. 

“Well, I’m about to make it worse.” Dex made an apologetic grimace. 

Lily sat up straighter. “Don’t leave me hanging.” The lightness was _definitely_ forced this time.

Still grimacing, he said, “Sprout’s giving us a test and a load of assignments to turn in for the first week of February.”

“The first week of… Oh.” She tried not to sound disappointed, but there was no hiding the flatness in her voice. 

“I want to be around for your birthday, I really do,” Dex went on, in a hurry now. “Believe me when I say the last thing I’d rather be doing that weekend is studying. But I can make it up to you? After?”

Lily forced herself to smile and nod. “I’m already looking forward to it.” 

She thought, suddenly, of how he’d asked her to be his girlfriend, at the start of the school year. _We don’t have to be around each other all the time and kiss goodnight…_ Hadn’t she been relieved, and excited, to have something fun and low-commitment? They’d grown more serious since then, but maybe it was all happening too fast. Maybe that night at Evan’s had underscored that fact for him just as it had for her.

Dex shouldn’t feel obligated to do things with her, or rearrange his life for her. She liked spending time with him. Surely that didn’t entitle her to make demands of him. Where did they stand? She hadn’t the faintest idea what she wanted — and it felt as though the moment to ask what _he_ wanted had passed.

The worry in his expression smoothed away, and he pressed a kiss to her mouth, startling her out of her reverie. “Enjoy your N.E.W.T.-free life while you can,” he said, rolling his eyes.

She laughed a little. “I will.” She picked up her quill and touched its tip to her parchment — then stopped. “I can’t for the life of me figure out how to get into that secret room on the seventh floor.”

Dex cocked his head thoughtfully. “No, it’s been difficult for me too lately. Maybe it moves — or maybe someone else is in it?”

Someone else? Lily thought back to Severus’s warning. Between the Christmas holidays and her own relationship, she'd entirely forgotten it. _Stay away from the seventh-floor corridor_. It was them — it had to be. And she had the sinking feeling the Slytherins weren’t baking Galleon biscuits.

But even if she knew when and where they were meeting, what use was it to anyone? If they couldn’t get the door open, she’d never know what they were up to. And Severus was never going to tell her. 

“Lily? Are you all right?” Dex was watching her with furrowed brows.

“Just thinking. Do you know how to get inside, if it’s locked?”

He shook his head slowly. “I’ve only ever gone by myself — I mean, I’ve never gone inside and found someone else in there before me. I think only one group of people can enter at a time. That’s the only explanation, isn’t it? Otherwise someone else would’ve found me in there, at some point or another.”

Lily let out a soft _huh_. Whether or not Dex’s theory was true would require information neither of them had. But his words made her think of something else. Or, more precisely, some _one_ else — because odds were that if Alec Rosier had found the room, someone else had too. And she had four classmates who seemed to know the castle better than Dumbledore himself.

“You might be right. I’ll ask James Potter about it.”

Dex made a face. Lily knew he hadn’t quite forgiven the Marauders for the pie incident, and she regretted even mentioning James. But it was too late to take it back, of course.

“What makes you think he’d know?”

Lily shrugged. “He and his friends know plenty, once you get past the general...hooliganism.” She stifled a smile, picturing exactly how James would react to being called a hooligan.

“I didn’t think you got on.” 

“We have our moments, but we get on well enough for me to ask him a casual question.” Lily cringed inwardly at this; it felt like an unfair rendering of the circumstances, given how friendly James had been on the Hogwarts Express. What _was_ it about him that made her so thoughtless?

Dex didn’t seem to know what to say to that. He shrugged too. “Well, hopefully we’ll be able to get into the room again.”

“Hopefully,” Lily echoed, and turned back to her essay before she could say something else she might regret.

The book club met in an empty classroom in the Charms corridor. Remus and Dorcas trooped in after Mary, who had the air of a general walking onto the battlefield.

“It’s still unclear to me why we’re here at all if Mary doesn’t like Amelia,” Remus whispered.

Doe gave him a sympathetic smile. “Please don’t try applying logic to anything about this situation, or those two girls.”

The classroom had been transformed into a cosy sitting room. Desks and chairs were pushed aside to make way for armchairs, and the round table in the centre of the ring bore an elaborate tea set. Doe was reminded of the little plastic set she’d played with as a child, a fantastically detailed forty-piece set her mother had complained about for months. Dorcas had lost half the pieces within weeks.

More interesting than the setup were the girls — for they were all girls — seated at the table. Amelia Bones sat in the biggest armchair, a teacup and saucer in her hands. Her brows rose at their entrance.

“Mary. Dorcas,” she said, her voice cool and even.

“Amelia,” Mary replied, equally frosty.

 _Dear God_ , Doe thought.

But the girl sitting next to Amelia saved them all. Sara clapped her hands together in glee and crowed, “Mary! I’m so glad you could come. Sit, sit, all of you — and Remus, what a lovely surprise.” 

Amelia looked a touch disgruntled at Sara greeting _her_ guests. She conjured two more armchairs, putting them at the opposite end of the circle from her where another empty chair sat. Doe and Remus exchanged a glance and sat down; Mary took the third spot.

Doe scanned the faces around her: Lottie Fenwick, she knew, and the two Gryffindor fifth years both named Lisa. Then there was a bored-looking Emmeline Vance, a decidedly unhappy Florence Quaille, and Cecily Sprucklin, stirring sugar into her tea. Last of all Doe’s gaze landed on the girl she was sitting next to — and she nearly leapt out of her seat at the sight of Thalia Greengrass. The Slytherin rolled her eyes at Doe’s surprise, but said nothing.

When Amelia began to talk about the book she and Remus had not read, Dorcas took the opportunity to lean towards him and whisper, “What’s Thalia doing here?”

Remus had been wearing an expression of faint confusion since the moment they’d walked through the door. 

“You’re asking the wrong person for gossip. I don’t know the first thing about her.” He paused. “Well, I know that she’s a Slytherin. And a sixth year. And a prefect. I don’t know the _fourth_ thing about her.”

“I’d rather not know the fourth thing about her.” 

Doe didn’t fancy making enemies the way Mary so relished it — but Thalia Greengrass figured high on the short list of people at Hogwarts she actually took issue with. But a more generous part of her wondered if she ought to give Thalia the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the crowd she ran with wasn’t a reflection of who she was. After all, Lily had been friends with that Severus Snape. 

Doe bent her head towards Remus again and said, “Was that a rude assessment?”

“I don’t think so. Although...anyone can disprove expectations?” he offered.

“Maybe,” Doe said, unconvinced. 

When Thalia opened her mouth to speak, Doe was certain she’d overheard them somehow, and was about to respond directly to their speculation. What the girl _did_ say, though, was, “He’s my friend, so it’s weird to say, but the dishiest seventh year _is_ Alec Rosier.”

Wait, what?

“Weren’t they talking about the book thirty seconds ago?” said Dorcas.

“I _thought_ so,” replied Remus.

“Dark horse,” said Cecily Sprucklin, “Cassius Mulciber.”

They couldn’t be serious. This was going from bad to worse. Doe was certain she’d misheard. Her gaze flicked to Mary, who was staring into her teacup, uncharacteristically quiet.

She couldn’t have said when she made the decision to speak, but suddenly she had made it, leaning forward to stare directly at Cecily. “Do you not _know_ , or are you just that dense?”

The circle fell silent. Amelia set down her cup with a clink. Cecily blinked owlishly.

“Not know what?”

Doe didn’t want to call attention to the fact that her best friend had been attacked by the wizard in question — not when she knew Mary hated being seen as an object of pity. Instead she said, “That he’s a disgusting blood purist, obviously. Haven’t you noticed the way he talks about Muggle-born students?”

Sara’s face was pinched with worry, but she said, “She’s not wrong, Cecily. You don’t have to know him to know that about him.” 

Doe shot her a grateful smile, and knew they were both thinking of the same thing: those nights the previous year that Mary had spent in the Hospital Wing, and then the weeks afterward she’d tossed and turned for. 

“Watch those accusations.” This came from Thalia, whose relaxed posture had changed into something still and alert.

Dorcas fought to keep her temper under control. “I didn’t say anything untrue — and you know that just as well as we all do. I don’t have the time or the energy to argue with you, or anyone, about people like _him_. Come on, Mary, Remus. Let’s go.” She set down her tea, and, after a moment’s hesitation, grabbed a biscuit. 

“No need,” said Thalia coldly. “I can see I’m not wanted.” She slid out of her chair and strode for the door; its click was audible in the silence that had descended in her wake.

Doe was still standing, biscuit in hand. She gestured impatiently for Mary and Remus to follow; the latter looked entirely out of his depth, and the former was frozen in place, her expression far away. Slowly, as if a spell were breaking, they both straightened and rose to their feet.

“I’m sorry,” said Amelia suddenly. “She was only here because she’s my cousin.”

Mary blew out a breath. “Thanks. For the apology. It’s — really all right.”

Doe was about to say that _no, it was_ not _all right_ , but Amelia said, “Mulciber and Avery are awful. I’ve written them up for some horrible things — hexes, curses — and I’ve even asked my mum to speak to Dumbledore about them. But it’s above his paygrade, she says—”

“Because Avery’s mother’s on the Hogwarts Board of Governors,” Mary supplied. “I know.”

Doe frowned. At no point after last year’s attack had Mary shared this information. How had she even found that out in the first place? 

Amelia sighed. “Yes. Well. I really am sorry.”

“We really _are_ leaving,” said Doe, skirting around the chairs.

Remus followed her, still wide-eyed; after a long moment, so did Mary. When they were in the corridor, a safe distance from the classroom, Doe slipped her hand into Mary’s, who squeezed her fingers in silent thanks. She wanted to ask about the Board of Governors, but now was not the time — not when Mary was still subdued, gnawing her lip and staring at the flagstone floor.

On Mary’s other side, Remus put a hand to her shoulder, briefly. “I have a better way to spend this afternoon. Have either of you been to the kitchens before?”

“No,” said Mary, after glancing at Doe. 

“You have to swear not to spill the beans to everyone at school.”

Mary cracked a smile. “Remus Lupin, are you calling me a gossip?”

Doe laughed, her heart suddenly full of gratitude. She felt no remorse about standing up for Mary, but anger was exhausting sometimes. Far better to fight for moments like this: quiet, warm, bright.

* * *

_ii. Surely Not Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting_

As students gathered in the courtyard, huddled together for warmth, Lily wondered if Hogwarts was even more magical than it seemed at first glance. The school’s quirks were necessarily on her mind — she’d not yet managed to pull James aside and ask him about the room on the seventh floor. She wasn’t certain _how_ to lead up to it, anyway.

If she brought up Dex, would he say something sardonic about _young love_ , as he’d done in September? She hoped things were more comfortable between them now. But thinking of Dex and James in the same moment reminded her of the pie, and what she’d said to him, and what he’d said to her… _Drat_ , Lily thought, rubbing her gloved hands together. 

On the other hand, if she told him she thought the Slytherins were practising Dark magic there, it would no doubt prompt a very foolhardy expedition. She had only to think of the first time the Marauders had caught them at it. James, Peter, and Sirius had tried to take on five Slytherins at once, and he’d actually protested Remus’s coming along with Sprout and McGonagall. And that wasn’t even counting Alec Rosier, whom Lily feared a good deal more than Regulus Black. And — well, who knew how many others had joined since? 

There had been no Severus, last time.

She shook off the gloom and nerves this line of thinking brought on. It was just Potter. _Just James Potter_ , whom she’d spent five and a half years speaking to without much care for how he’d react. (Strictly speaking, that was not true. Lily’s problem was that she _did_ care, consistently, and much of her frustration with James had come from the fact that he never seemed to care what _she_ thought of _him_. Wouldn’t it be nice to have that sort of self-assurance?) No, she would speak to him after Duelling Club.

She scanned the crowd for him and his friends, and her gaze landed on him just as he turned in her direction. Some faint amusement crossed his face; he quirked an eyebrow at her, as if to say, _well? What are you staring at?_

Lily coughed and looked away. Just her luck. Now she would probably have to take even more cheek from him. All in a day’s work — she would endure it if it meant figuring out if Rosier and the others really were using the hidden room.

What had she been thinking of? Her worry about James had derailed the quiet excitement of the morning. Yes — the courtyard, full of sixth and seventh years, was surely bigger than it normally was. Lily didn’t think that was her imagination. It seemed to have grown to accommodate them all, and then some.

The students were joined by the four Auror trainees and Professors Flitwick and Thorpe. The professors were engaged in what looked like a very serious conversation, but there was definite anticipation in the Aurors’ expressions. 

“I can’t believe I had to cancel Quidditch for this,” grumbled a voice some distance away — Lucinda Talkalot, Lily realised; the group of students around her looked none too pleased at spending a weekend morning on mandatory schoolwork. Lucinda’s voice carried; across the courtyard, Thorpe looked up, her eyes narrowed.

“This _will_ be a learning experience, and you _will_ be tested on what you learn — but duelling can be fun, if you do it the right way.”

“She’s not wrong. That demonstration at the start of the year was better than Quidditch,” Doe murmured.

“Swot,” Germaine whispered back.

“I know you’ve all had a demonstration in class,” Thorpe went on, “but maybe another one’s in order.” She glanced at the Auror trainees, who all straightened and smiled.

“Professor Flitwick, you ought to show us,” Marissa Beasley called, grinning at her head of house.

Flitwick went beet-red. “Oh, Miss Beasley, it’s been years — I’m sure my style is terribly outdated.” But his feeble protest only garnered more agreement, particularly from the Ravenclaws.

“I’d duel you, Professor — I’d be more than happy to.” The Auror trainee who’d spoken was freckled, fair-haired Alice St. Martin; she stepped forward and beamed at Flitwick. The students around them began to back up, freeing a sizeable circle of space for the duel.

 _Definitely magic_ , thought Lily.

Flitwick chortled. “I can’t say no to a former student. Very well, Miss St. Martin, take your place.”

They stood several paces apart, facing each other. The crowd buzzed with anticipation; from among the Slytherins, Anthony Avery shouted, “How does it work, Professor? First to draw blood?” His friends sniggered at this, clearly sceptical of the Charms professor’s ability to wound anyone.

Flitwick took this in stride. With a dry smile, he said, “In my day we went to the death, Avery, but we’ll do best of three. Why don’t you give the students some advice, Alice, before we begin? I’ll need every moment I can get to prepare.”

Alice St. Martin laughed. “Please, Professor, you sell yourself short.” Turning to address the students, she said, “Duelling is like a very elegant fistfight — though I hope none of you have been in one of those either.” A few students chuckled at this. “We’re learning defensive stuff only, of course, but the point is that the best duellists aren’t necessarily the most knowledgeable, or the best at magic. They think on their feet. They’re the ones who use every advantage they can get. Does that sound right, Professor?”

In response Flitwick smiled and flicked his wand; at once Alice threw up a Shield Charm, but another wand wave from the professor and the shield shattered. Alice was knocked off balance by his jinx. As she fell, though, a rope shot from her wand and looped around Flitwick’s wrist. A sharp _tug_ , and Flitwick tumbled to the floor, his wand falling from his hand. The professor stood up once more, laughing to himself.

“Strike one,” said Alice. Lily noted the happy flush in her cheeks; the witch was clearly in her element. 

“That was quick, wasn’t it?” whispered Doe. “Do you think he let her win?”

But the next round proved that theory entirely false. Flitwick moved so quickly that Lily had hardly registered the start of the duel before Alice’s wand sailed into his grip. She regained her advantage, however, in the round afterwards, throwing a rapid combination of hexes that broke through Flitwick’s shield. 

To start the fourth volley, Alice spun a ring of fire towards Flitwick, who tutted even as students leapt backwards. 

“Flashy, flashy, you ought to know better—”

And lightning filled the sky all of a sudden: a single raincloud blossomed over the duellists, dousing Alice’s flames at once. Alice shrugged, grinning, and dismissed the rain with a wave. Light crackled between them, the heat of their spellwork turning the winter morning suddenly warm. Lily forgot to worry about James. She was too busy watching. When Flitwick’s shield disappeared in a haze of smoke and Alice gave a happy whoop, some students broke out into applause.

“That’s the match for me,” she said.

Flitwick looked at his wandless hands, still smiling. “Didn’t you say duellists use _every_ advantage?”

And he raised his arms, making a gesture utterly foreign to the magic system Lily had learned. Alice was thrown backwards. Both her wand and Flitwick’s reappeared in his outstretched hands.

“That’s the match for _me_ ,” Flitwick said amidst gasps. “Now, don’t try that yourselves, students — and let me have a seat, my heart isn’t what it used to be—”

Alice looked positively thrilled to have been bowled over. She clapped as she stood. “You really do undersell yourself, Professor. Let’s have half the students watching and half paired up to duel, Professor Thorpe?”

At Thorpe’s acquiescence the Aurors began to divide the crowd into onlookers and duellists. Lily realised this was her chance — if she made sure she was paired with James, or, better still, if she and James both sat out the first round, then she could find a way to innocuously bring up the room. 

“I hope I’m paired with someone good,” Dorcas said, bouncing on her toes. 

“I hope they sit me out and then forget about me,” said Mary.

“Yes,” said Lily, “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you _going?”_

But Lily didn’t answer; she began pushing her way towards the Marauders. Before she’d made it even halfway across the courtyard, Thorpe appeared in her path.

“Oh, good, Evans. You’re sensible enough to duel first, I think. Or at least I can trust you not to take someone’s head off. You can go with—” Lily saw her turn to the Marauders, hoping her plan would succeed against all odds. “—Black.” Thorpe waved Sirius over.

He eyed Lily with what she thought was unnecessary wariness. “Yeah, Professor?”

“You’ll duel Evans. Tell the rest of your friends to have a seat.” She frowned at him. “Exemplary behaviour.”

Sirius sighed. “Right. _Professor.”_

Lily had no idea what to make of this exchange, but she hadn’t the time to consider it. Sirius was already walking towards an emptier part of the courtyard; she hurried after him.

The Duelling Club let up only at lunchtime, but by then even the students who had been complaining about the time suck had mellowed out. Practical magic, Lily thought, appealed to everyone on some level. Or, at least, most people.

“Great. I can’t wait to be reminded every two weeks, in _addition_ to classes, that I don’t have the head for spellwork,” Mary grumbled. 

“You’ve got the head for it. You’ve just decided already that you’re bad at it,” said Doe.

“Ha. Head,” said Germaine, which earned groans all around.

“Lily, are you going to tell us why you’re a hundred miles away and staring at James like you want to burn a hole in him with your eyes?”

Lily jumped. “Huh?”

“Yes, pay attention to us,” Mary said. “I thought the days of complaining about him were safely past.”

“No, it’s nothing like that. I have to ask him something.” 

Lily was still trying to think of an angle. She had considered asking Sirius, while they’d been practising, but it turned out that he was a sharp duellist when he put in the effort. Lily had been wholly engrossed in besting him. If only she’d asked him after all — it would have been strange and out of the blue, but at least she wouldn’t have needed to anticipate his every reaction.

“Ask him what?” said Germaine.

“About—”

Too late, Lily registered that she had a similar problem with her friends. Telling them her suspicions about the room might not lead them to break in and investigate, but they would have plenty of questions. And plenty of opinions too.

She didn’t yet know what she wanted to do with the information, if her hunch was proven correct. The smart thing to do would be to tell a professor, but she did not want to waste McGonagall’s time.

“Nice work, you lot,” Alice St. Martin called as she passed by.

 _There_ was an idea. Maybe she could tell one of the Aurors — Edgar Bones seemed approachable, and he was technically there to guard against any threat to the castle. Yes, Lily resolved, she would certainly escalate things if the situation demanded it.

“About what?” Dorcas was asking her, her dark eyes round with concern.

“About Dex,” she said absentmindedly.

Mary snorted with laughter — until she realised Lily was being serious. “You’re asking James Potter about your boyfriend? Do they even know each other?”

“What? No — look, I’ll see you at lunch.”

Lily lengthened her stride to catch up to the Marauders. The four boys were walking with their heads down, engrossed in quiet conversation. If they were speaking in undertones, they were planning something — but for once Lily truly did not care to figure out what, exactly, it was.

“James, can I have a word?” she said, stopping all four of them in their tracks. Honestly, it was a bit unnerving, how in sync they were.

James detached himself from his friends, hands in his pockets. “Er, sure. What about?”

Lily could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. “It’s a long story. Walk with me to the Great Hall?”

Peter, Remus, and Sirius exchanged a look of some significance.

“Don’t forget,” said Sirius, “we have the—” He raised his eyebrows, apparently unwilling to say more in front of Lily.

“See you at lunch,” Remus said, seeming to making a decision for all four of them. The other boys trooped off.

James still hadn’t moved; he was looking down at her, brows slightly furrowed. “This is all very serious.”

“Oh, no, it’s much less dramatic than it seems.” She let out an awkward laugh and started towards the Great Hall. 

He fell into step beside her. After a few paces of walking in silence, Lily realised she was pumping her legs faster than usual to keep up with him. James seemed to realise this at the very same instant, slowing his walk.

“So?” he prompted.

Lily reached into her bag and pulled out a slim hardcover. Her copy of _Persuasion_ was crisp and unworn, a far sight from her _Pride and Prejudice_ , but it was still Austen, and therefore a cut above any other offering she could give. Wordlessly she held the book out to him.

James glanced at it but did not reach for it. “Are we doing a gift exchange? Christmas is over, Evans.”

Lily gave him a pointed look. “Out of the goodness of my own heart, I’m lending it to you and not expecting a gift in return.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart, you’re forcing your taste in books on me, for reasons I haven’t yet figured out but are _certainly_ in service of some ulterior motive.”

She scoffed and waved the book at him. “Fine, then—”

“Only joking. Give it here. With a title like that, I can't help but be curious.”

Lily smiled, gratified, as he tucked the book under an arm.

“Now, get to the real reason you’re slowing me down for lunch.”

“The — slowing you down!” she repeated, laughing. 

“Yeah, you’ve got—” James waved a hand “—short legs.”

“I’m not short.”

James gave her a look of immense disbelief. “You can’t be a smidge taller than five-foot-four. On a _good_ day.”

“I am not short. You’re just overgrown,” Lily shot back.

_“Overgrown.”_

“Yes. You know when an animal or a plant is unusually small, they call it a pygmy? You’re the opposite of that.”

James stared at her in openmouthed silence. Lily was very pleased to have gotten in a dig that he could not respond to.

Then he laughed so hard his glasses slid off his nose.

“God, James,” Lily said, but despite her exasperation she was smiling. She didn’t quite know what she was smiling at. She bent down to pick up his glasses, inspecting them to ensure they were undamaged, and handed them back to him.

He’d stopped laughing quite abruptly, though traces of amusement still lingered in his expression. Lily didn’t think she’d seen him with his glasses off — or at least, she’d never looked closely at him with his glasses off. He could be so unreadable, she thought, but James Potter really did have a face for laughter.

James took his glasses back and slipped them on. “You still haven’t told me what you’re here for. Any minute we’ll be in the Great Hall and then you’ll spend all day fretting about whatever you didn’t get to say to me.”

“I don’t fret—” Lily began.

“Christ, Evans, get to the point.”

Lily sighed. She couldn’t delay any longer. “Don’t say something embarrassing, please.”

“Embarrassing to you, or to me? I have a very high shame threshold.”

“That explains so much about you.”

“ _Ouch_. So the novel was a bribe after all.”

She flapped a hand to shush him. “The seventh-floor corridor with the funny tapestry — you know it?”

James frowned. “Am I familiar with Barnabas the Barmy? Obviously. Were you going to ask a challenging question?”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “There’s a place — a, a room opposite the tapestry.” Was she blushing? She definitely was. _God, give me strength_ , she thought fervently.

“Yeeeeah,” James said, still confused. “It only appears sometimes, though.”

Relief eased some of her nervousness. So he _did_ know of the room.

“That’s the one, exactly.”

He did not share her enthusiasm, apparently. “I don’t know if I’d call it a room.”

“No, it’s definitely a room.” Lily frowned too. This was a complication she hadn’t foreseen.

James opened his mouth to say something, then appeared to think better of it. “Never mind, go on. What about the room?”

“Well, Dex was the one who showed it to me, but neither of us has been able to get in for some time. So I thought, if anyone knew how it worked, it’d be you and your… James? Why are you making that face?”

He looked as though she had just handed him gold he did not want to use: torn, a little bit sheepish. “I — sorry, it’s nothing. I didn’t think you were the sort. But, er, no judgment. Free love.”

“Now I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.” Had he read some kind of sinister, scandalous intent into the question? She burned at the thought — not that she would let herself be _shamed_ , not by him or anyone, but how embarrassing that anyone had made that assumption so close upon the heels of the actual sex she’d had. 

But James, for his supposedly high shame threshold, looked just as embarrassed as Lily felt.

“It’s a broom cupboard. That’s what you’re talking about — the broom cupboard opposite the Barnabas the Barmy tapestry, yeah?”

 _Oh_. “No, _no_ , it’s not a broom cupboard — it’s a common room, it’s got an oven and a bookshelf—” LIly stammered. 

James’s obvious scepticism did not help her regain her confidence.

“No, that’s a broom cupboard, all right. It’s the Betty Braithwaite cupboard.”

“The—” Lily mouthed _Betty Braithwaite cupboard_ soundlessly, trying to decide if she wanted to ask more questions or not. “The—”

James scoffed. “Rich of you to take that tone with me when you and Fortescue have obviously been putting the cupboard to good use since Betty left Hog—”

She needed to nip this in the bud. “James, for God’s sake, shut up. It did _not_ look like a broom cupboard when we met there, and we weren’t — we didn’t — there was no—” Lily coughed and stopped speaking to collect herself. Realisation struck. “The room must change size. Like — like the courtyard today!” It felt as though a puzzle piece had slid satisfyingly into place. 

Thankfully James took this as an excuse to move on from the question of what Dex and Lily had done in the room. “Well, that’s not the only unusual thing about it,” he said, growing thoughtful. “It — doesn’t appear on maps of the school.”

“What maps?” Lily frowned at him, but he would not meet her gaze. “I’ve read _Hogwarts: A History_ , and there’s no maps that I could remember.”

“Not in _Hogwarts: A History_. Er, my point is, it’s hard to find. Hard to summon, conjure, whatever it is. Although, Betty was decent at it.”

_“James.”_

“Decent at summoning the cupboard, _Evans_. I don’t kiss and tell.”

Lily smothered her instinctive laugh, doing her best to look stern. “So, the room — you don’t know how to get in?”

“I didn’t say that,” James said immediately. “I only said it was hard. I could figure it out.” A dramatic sigh. “If you _really_ want me to, for your romantic getaways.”

“Oh, would you drop it?”

“Since I’m doing you this favour, I should get something in return. Like getting to poke at you about said romantic getaways.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Friends don’t _quid pro quo_ , Potter.”

James held up his hands in surrender. “Friends? Slow it down, Evans. Take me to dinner first.”

She was saved from responding by the Head Girl, who was passing by them in the corridor.

“Hiya, James,” Marissa said. “Lily, could I have a word? The bloody patrol schedule — everyone and their mothers wants to swap this month— Oh, sorry, was I interrupting?” She looked between James and Lily, her bright blue eyes wide in apology.

Lily wasn’t certain the issue was resolved, but before she could think of what to say, James cut her off.

“No, we’re done. Mar, have at her. Evans—” he pointed _Persuasion_ at her as he backed away “—sit tight on the cupboard.”

 _“Thank_ you,” Lily said, rolling her eyes. To Marissa she said, “Sorry, he unlearns his manners within days of leaving home. Something about the patrols, was it?”

Marissa laughed; the mirth remained in her expression even after she’d pulled out a notepad and quill. Lily smiled back automatically. She hadn’t let herself consider the position of Head Girl next year, and how very badly she wanted it to be hers, but she did so now as Marissa paged through patrol schedules. She wanted to be approachable and fun, as the older girl was.

The sensible part of Lily knew she had a less laid-back leadership style than Marissa and shouldn’t mould herself to be someone she wasn’t — but she _wished_ for it nevertheless. Marissa always seemed unflappable, like a girl out of a classic boarding school novel: shiny blonde ponytail swinging behind her, cool enough to joke with the popular students but responsible enough to be trusted by their teachers. 

“Lily? Are you listening?”

“What? Oh. Yes. Very much.”

Marissa gave her a knowing smile. “I was saying, Singh and Vance are on for the last week of January, but Vance doesn’t want to patrol the weekend Ravenclaw plays Quidditch.” She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Any chance you and Lupin could do it? It’s Filch that week too, unfortunately, but at least the two of you haven’t outright _fought_ with the man.”

Lily didn’t need to ask Remus to know there would be an issue. “Well — that Sunday’s my birthday, but if you—”

“Oh! You’re off the hook.” Marissa waved a hand to dismiss any more protests. “I’ll just get...yes, Greengrass and Snape can take it.”

She did not want to sacrifice the week of her birthday, but Lily felt as though she should press the case just a little.

“I mean, if you really need someone to fill in—”

“Lily,” Marissa said, firm but not unkind, “don’t be ridiculous. The Slytherins will do it, and if they don’t Colin and I will.”

“Okay, if you’re—”

Marissa squeezed her shoulder. “Positive. Sorry, I’ve delayed your lunch, haven’t I? We’ll catch up later.” And the Head Girl sailed away.

Lily let out a sigh at this abrupt departure, starting towards the Great Hall once more. When she arrived at lunch the other Gryffindor sixth years were already seated: her friends at one end, talking loudly and enthusiastically about something or the other, and the Marauders much further down. Her gaze fell upon James’s dark, messy hair. _Sit tight_ , she thought, dropping onto the bench.

It was quite nice of him to have agreed to help her when there was really nothing in it for him. No, nothing at all... For once she was looking forward to seeing what James Potter would come up with.

“Oh, she’s back,” Mary said. “So? You were asking _Potter_ about _De_ x?”

Normally Lily admired her friend’s tenacity. Today was not one of those days.

“It’s complicated,” she said after a long, expectant silence.

Dorcas laughed. “With you and him, of course it is.”

Lily sighed once more, though not entirely unhappily. “I’m not going to touch that.” With an air of finality she reached for the roast potatoes, and the conversation turned to something far simpler.

Several seats closer to the teachers’ table, James was facing the reverse of this interrogation.

“You’re helping Lily Evans get to the Betty Braithwaite cupboard, for use with her boyfriend?” Sirius said, looking at his friend as if he’d lost his mind.

“Yeah, so? It’s what...acquaintances do for each other.” James felt he was being honest, but in the face of his mates’ scepticism even he began to question himself. He shook off this train of thought. _Doubt_ was for other people.

“I think it’s nice of you,” said Remus. (Sirius groaned.) “What? If you want to move on, that’s how you do it.”

“That’s not moving on,” Peter pointed out. “That’s when you like a bird so much you’ll help her with other blokes, just ’cause you want her to be happy.”

“Been at the Mills and Boon, have you?” Sirius said drily. 

“You’re the one who hasn’t shut up about Mills and Boon since you read _Dragon Bay_ —”

“Yeah, because it was a hilarious yet telling example of Muggle culture, for which Atkinson gave me a big fat O, if you’ll recall—”

“Maybe I just wanted to solve a castle mystery,” James interrupted. “And Evans doesn’t factor into it. I mean, don’t you want to know where the cupboard gets off to?”

“I still think you’re lying about it,” Peter said. “That corridor’s empty. Maybe you were imagining it. Maybe it was a group hallucination.”

“Betty was diverting, Wormtail, but not _that_ diverting.”

“Honestly, Prongs,” said Remus.

“ _Any_ way,” James said, “if you see the cupboard, do me a favour and let me know, yeah?”

Sirius assumed his sceptical expression once more. “Do you a favour and let you know so you can tell Lily so she can—”

“All right, you’ve made your point,” Remus said. “Merlin. We have other things to deal with, don’t we?”

“That we do.” Sirius shot a regretful glance at the Slytherin table. “Give them my love.” The sarcastic comment was far from out of character for him, but his friends registered the extra bite to it, and how his gaze landed on — and then bounced away from — his brother. (No, not his brother. They weren’t brothers anymore.)

“I’m sure they’re waiting with bated breath for that,” Remus said.

James followed his gaze. When Cassius Mulciber and Anthony Avery realised they were being watched, both scowled. James lifted a hand in a friendly wave.

“Do you think they’ll take the bait yet?” Peter whispered.

The pair were muttering to one another now. 

“Not...yet,” said Remus in an undertone.

They were now getting up from the Slytherin table, meals unfinished. The students around them inched away from their plates.

“Oh, do they think we put something in their food?” said Peter, positively gleeful.

James had his wand out; he was idly twirling it in one hand. “There’s something to be said for the straightforward approach.”

Still looking mournful, Sirius pushed away from the table too. “How sad that I had nothing to do with this idea. I mean, how _awful_ of you three to hurt dear Mulciber and Avery.” He said this loudly enough for the students seated around the Marauders to hear.

“How awful,” Remus agreed, something unusually steely in his voice. 

As Sirius sauntered away, Mulciber and Avery approached.

“Whatever stupid trick you’re planning—” Avery started.

“Trick? Oh, no. This is simple stuff.”

James waved his wand, and at once the Slytherins’ hands sandwiched together, palms first, so that both boys looked as though they were praying. 

Mulciber let out a frustrated yell, trying to wrench his hands apart. “What the fuck — you’ll pay for this, Potter, I swear—”

“If you ever get unstuck,” said Peter.

Avery, meanwhile, was doing a funny sort of hop as he shook his folded hands. “Ow — don’t move, it _hurts_ if you move too much—”

The Marauders stood from their seats and started for the exit, as though nothing had happened at all. Avery and Mulciber watched them go, glaring, their matching gestures of supplication comically at odds with their thunderous expressions.

“Try begging for forgiveness sometimes,” said Remus coldly, and with that, the boys headed back to Gryffindor Tower to await their detention summons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooh, i hope this was as fun for you to read as it was for me to write! much of this chapter was *not* in my outline but just happened organically — like doe confronting thalia, and, accordingly, the marauders hexing mulciber and avery. it's been quite a time, adding new plotlines that excite me while also snipping away things that don't feel right anymore. but i think the end product is something i'm happy with! also wow it's been january for so many chapters... get ready for a time jump soon, lol.
> 
> the next chapter is called "the first message" (ooooh!), and will feature some more james/lily times, plus lily's birthday!
> 
> thanks so much for reading, and, as always, comments and kudos are so very appreciated. seriously, if you can't think what to say in your comment just drop a smiley face and i will treasure the smiley face all day.
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	16. The First Message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Lily and her boyfriend do the do and he gets all distant because of schoolwork, making Lily nervous about their relationship. James agrees to help her figure out how the secret room (the Room of Requirement, unbeknownst to them) on the seventh floor works. Mary thinks Doe should go for Michael Meadowes. Germaine and James argue about the time she spends flying with Ravenclaw Seeker Emmeline Vance; Germaine sees Emmeline flirting with Chris Townes at Evan's party, and realises she has feelings for her. 
> 
> NOW: It's one step forward and two steps backward for James and Lily. Doe does her best impersonation of the Spanish Inquisition. Gryffindor plays a game, and Hogwarts wakes up to shocking news on the morning of the 30th.

_i. Same Old Worries_

“I’m so sick and tired,” Germaine announced at breakfast, “of seeing this prat in the papers.” She jabbed a finger at Marcel Thorpe’s latest column. 

“If only the _Prophet_ had offices in Hogsmeade,” Lily said, moodily stabbing at a sausage. “Doe was listening to his horrible show last week, and I overheard him saying that though he doesn’t condone violence, he isn’t _surprised_ that some purebloods feel the need to _respond_ to Muggleborns’ encroaching on their space. Can you believe it? I mean, if you have to say it with that many euphemisms, you can’t really think you aren’t condoning violence.”

“I hope that Clearwater bird reads Doe’s owls eventually.”

The sixth year girls had seen Dorcas furiously scribble letters to the _Prophet_ ’s editor every other day in their free periods. Doe had yet to receive a response, but she did not seem deterred by the result. 

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Lily said, dropping her fork. She’d planned on finishing her breakfast as quickly as possible so she could take her sweet time reading her mother’s latest letter, but as usual she’d been slow to rise. She stuffed the note in her pocket, deciding she could look at it on the way to Potions.

“Going already?” Germaine folded up the _Prophet_ and made to stand with her.

“Oh, take your time. My mum’s written me, so I thought I’d take a long walk to the dungeons.”

With a last wave at her friend, Lily slipped out of the Great Hall and withdrew the note from her mother. _All is well… Tuney's driving up to take me to the doctor's, how kind of her... Are you excited for your birthday… present headed your way by Sunday…_ Lily smiled, tracing Doris’s curling script with a finger. She hadn’t yet decided how she wanted to spend her birthday. In years past she’d had quiet days in with Severus — the memories stung — and once, a Hogsmeade outing with her friends. 

She supposed she’d become a more social creature now. She wouldn’t have minded a party, but was utterly at a loss for whom to ask about the things that went into one. For instance, who would she have invited? Lily was not friendless, but if she thought about it, she was friend _ly_ with more people than she was friends with. And the next Hogsmeade visit was two weeks away, so she certainly did not have any Butterbeer or treats to share.

No, it would be a quiet birthday, but she didn’t mind that thought much. The point was, she’d need to spend it _with_ people, lest she consider who was missing from the celebrations. Like Severus...and Dex, who was indeed mired in N.E.W.T. homework. And her father, who would not have been here at Hogwarts in person anyway but whose death anniversary was just two weeks off.

Lily remembered, for a brief moment, the homesickness that had washed over her in December. It had been unlike her then and it was unlike her now to wish she were home instead of in the castle. But home, despite Petunia’s frustrating behaviour and horrid boyfriend, was so uncomplicated. Petunia did not live at home anymore, and if Lily were with her mother she’d only have to deal with her sister on weekends. She could do that. They’d parted on good terms at the start of the month anyway.

She shook off this daydream. It wasn’t as though she could go home — and she didn’t want to, not really. This fugue could not, _would_ not spoil her seventeenth birthday.

Aloud, she said, “I mean, this is the birthday they write songs about.”

“Planning on going full ‘Dancing Queen?’” a quiet voice, suffused with mirth, said from behind her.

Lily started, but gave Remus Lupin a warm smile. “Don’t tell anyone I’m talking to myself in the corridor.”

He smiled in return. “I’ll keep your secrets. And I’ll walk you to Potions, so you can talk to yourself and pretend you’re speaking to me.”

“Have I ever mentioned you’re my most thoughtful friend?”

Remus laughed. “I’ll be sure to keep that secret too. Doe would have my head.”

Her morning blues faded a little with company. _See, Lily? You_ don’t _want to be at home after all_. She glanced at her friend, trying to think of the last time she’d properly talked to him and coming up short. That gave her a stab of guilt. She had been so preoccupied with her own problems, she’d near forgotten to check in with the mates she didn’t live with.

“Are you all right? I feel as though I haven’t seen you all month. I’d hate to think we only talk when we patrol together,” she said.

“Never mind me,” said Remus, the warmth in his eyes tacit forgiveness. “I’m not the one with a big day coming up. Do you know how you want to celebrate?”

Lily opened her mouth to vocalise all the meandering half-made plans she’d just been thinking up, but stopped short.

“Did they send you to ask? Doe and the others?”

Remus looked mildly indignant. “Can’t I enquire after a friend? Or do we only talk when we patrol together?”

“No, I didn’t mean that,” said Lily hastily. “God, I’m insensitive, that’s not what I meant at all—”

To her relief, he chuckled. “You caught me. I did have ulterior motives, but I’m honestly curious.”

Lily relaxed and shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. And I’m not sure I have the means to carry out anything I decide.”

At that, he arched an eyebrow. “Lily, you know who my mates are. We always have the means.”

She laughed. “So if I told you I wanted a house-wide Exploding Snap tournament, you’d organise one?”

“I’d wonder at your choices, considering you’re rubbish at it — don’t give me that look, we both know it’s true — but I would see what we can do.”

Her mother’s words flashed before her eyes: _do enjoy yourself, dear, I hate to think how hard you must be working… if anyone deserves a day off it’s you_. Lily trusted just about everything Doris said. And there was a small voice in her head that sounded like her father, reminding her she would sleep easier after an evening with the people she loved, that good company was like hot chocolate.

“Exploding Snap it is,” she said, smiling.

Remus gave her an incredulous look. “You’re not serious.”

“I am, though I’m sure I’ll regret it. Who knows, maybe I’ll learn and end up the winner.”

“Peter’s brilliant at Exploding Snap,” said Remus. “No offence, Lily, he’s fond of you, but he likes winning loads more.”

They were at the dungeons; students were filtering into the classroom. The pair had to wait in the corridor a moment before they could enter.

“I’ll just have to remind Peter it’s my birthday weekend, and that a little leniency is owed to the birthday girl…” Lily batted her lashes innocently.

Remus laughed. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

“You can give me tips on how best to flatter him.” She sat down in her usual spot in the first row, and, on impulse, patted the empty seat beside her. “C’mon, we haven’t sat together in ages.”

“You want Mary to kill me too, don’t you?”

“Ah, she’ll find someone else to sit with — maybe it’ll be a nice boy, and she’ll get to flirt with him. She’ll forget about little old me in no time.”

Remus snorted. “Flirt with who, a Slytherin?” But he took the spot beside her and began unpacking his things, dropping his battered _Advanced Potion Making_ next to her own. “At least you’re making _your_ motives clear at the start.”

Lily grinned. “I have ulterior motives, but I’m honestly curious.”

Three words, strung together, struck fear into Dorcas Walker’s heart. She did not think them often, but instead of that being a reassurance, they were all the more daunting to consider. Indeed, she couldn’t even _remember_ the last time she’d thought those words… She wasn’t even thinking of them now, not really. She was sort of passively wondering about them. In only the most distant of senses. And simply because their Ancient Runes homework was impossible.

“Michael,” she whispered. 

Anderberg hated them. There was simply no other explanation. There was no _plausible_ reason for these translations being so utterly incomprehensible… And yet Michael’s quill was skating smoothly across his parchment.

“ _Michael_ ,” Doe said, more insistently this time.

He looked up, his brow furrowed. “Yeah?”

She meant to ask about _rehwa_ , and if there was a conjugation she wasn’t considering in the twelfth line of the passage they were working on. What came out instead was quite different.

“Are you seeing Florence Quaille?”

Michael blinked at her. She blinked back, almost equally surprised. Seeming to realise the question had been asked in earnest, he said, “No?”

“Right,” said Doe. “Because, you know, she’s—”

“—in love with Chris Townes,” Michael finished. “I did know.”

“Okay. Well, Mar— someone saw her kiss you at King’s Cross, so, I just thought she was your rebound…” She was glad that she could keep a straight face through this.

He laughed. “She’s definitely not my rebound. I’ve been her shoulder to cry on, figuratively speaking, about Chris. Really it’s funny that she hasn’t—”

“—told Cecily yet, right.” Doe frowned. This was quite the neat little resolution to what had happened at Evan’s. “You’re not seeing Cecily, are you?”

At this Michael looked truly flummoxed. “No? She’s seeing Chris?”

“Right, good, because she thinks Cassius Mulciber is...dishy, except Mulciber is a bigot, and what with you being Muggle-born it would be a bad idea to go with anyone who thought that was a forgivable offence.”

Some of his confusion gave way; he smiled. “Nice of you to be so concerned for me.”

“Right. A concerned citizen, that’s me.” She twirled her quill in her fingers. Another thought niggled at her. Common sense dictated she hold it in, but she’d asked two embarrassing questions already. What was a third?

Just as Michael had returned to his homework, Doe blurted out, “And, you’re not seeing Marissa Beasley, are you?”

He laughed and set his quill down. “I wasn’t expecting the Spanish Inquisition.”

She mumbled, “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

“You would, actually,” he said, sounding almost apologetic. “They gave thirty days’ notice.”

“Oh.” Doe was momentarily blindsided. “I didn’t know that.”

“Blame it on _Monty Python_. I spoiled the joke, didn’t I?”

She smiled, glad despite herself for the conversational detour. “You did, a bit. But I forgive you.”

“Well, if you want updates on who’s seeing whom…” Michael tapped his chin with a finger, assuming a thoughtful expression. “Steve Fawcett’s taking Amelia to Hogsmeade next month, Lottie Fenwick’s seeing this Hufflepuff — it’s very sweet, she talks about him in the common room non-stop — and I actually reckon Marissa’s seeing—”

Doe laughed, reaching across the table to shove him. “Stop it, you know that’s not what I care about.”

“Then can I know why you’re really asking?”

There was something there, in the answer to that question — something Doe wasn’t ready to say to herself just yet, let alone to him. 

“It’s a long, stupid story. Mary’s — well, I shouldn’t say—” this after she remembered Mary didn’t want people knowing about her and Doc just yet “—but, anyway, I guess you could say Mary’s been trying to piece together who slept with whom after Evan Wronecki’s party.”

Michael’s curious smile turned into a wide grin. “That’s how it is, eh? Tell Mary Macdonald that if she wants to see me she ought to ask me out. She doesn’t have to pretend we’re going to Hogsmeade as friends.”

Was he joking? Doe was quite certain he was joking. But one could never be sure, not where Mary was concerned. Some of her confusion must have shown on her face, because he burst into laughter.

“Your _face_ , Dorcas. I’m having you on.”

“Oh.” She resurrected her smile. “That’s rude of you. Mary’s a catch, Michael Meadowes. You’d be lucky to have her.”

He clasped his hands together in apology. “You’re absolutely right. Don’t say a word.”

Doe giggled at his pout and waved her homework at him. “What I really wanted to ask was, look at this rune here—” 

And though the afternoon returned to its designated course, her thoughts did not. Because there had been a telltale swoop in her stomach when Michael had laughed at her…and Dorcas thought those three words, those three _awful_ words. _Was Mary right?_

That weekend the student population headed down to the Quidditch stadium once more. Germaine King lingered on at breakfast, staring at her porridge. Ravenclaw versus Slytherin had been moved forward, much to the two teams’ dismay — and Gryffindor’s delight, of course. She’d spent the morning overhearing her teammates eagerly discuss how this could cost Ravenclaw, their biggest competitors.

“The bottom line is,” James was saying, “whether or not they’ve had less time to practice than they normally would after the holidays, they’re still good. And no matter who wins our job is still the same. We’ve had our schedules messed with too.”

But even he could not deliver this lecture sternly; there was a wide grin on his face. It _did_ make a difference, because if Ravenclaw lost — Germaine automatically knocked on wood at this thought — then Gryffindor would have an easier path to the Quidditch Cup. They could lose a match and still win. But James would have killed her if she’d pointed this out. 

“Sure, sure,” Isobel Park said. “I just want to know who I should thank for this. I’d like to send them flowers.”

“Apparently it was Lawrence,” said Evan Wronecki.

“Lawrence?” Germaine glanced up at the professors’ table, where the wizened Divination teacher was tucking into her eggs. The woman had a healthy appetite, but somehow always looked to be on the brink of death. “I didn’t know Lawrence cared this way or that about Quidditch.”

James was rolling his eyes. “She told her sixth year class that a flier would have a terrible accident in the castle at the end of February, and Vance and Fawcett persuaded Flitwick to have the match moved. If they really think some half-baked prophecy is worth less practice, that’s their prerogative.”

The Gryffindors exchanged glances, knowing full well that had this vision concerned _their_ team, James would probably have told them to make sure the terrible accident did actually happen — to their rivals, on the pitch. 

Germaine alone did not share in their bemused looks. The name _Vance_ stung still. She’d come down to breakfast late on purpose so that she did not have to see the other witch. The choice had paid off — the Ravenclaw team had already headed down to the stadium — but it had been silly, in retrospect, to think she could have escaped hearing about her.

Her teammates rose but Germaine stayed sitting. As they ambled for the exit, a shadow hung over her. She looked up to see James, hands in pockets, still waiting.

“You’re not watching?” he asked, like he already knew the answer.

She shrugged. “I don’t really feel up to it.”

“Well...whatever your reasons…” 

He looked at his feet. Germaine thought he was remembering the afternoon, weeks ago, when they’d argued on the pitch about Emmeline. She didn’t quite feel like apologising yet. 

James seemed to feel the same way, because he continued, “Percy takes notes, and they’re ridiculously detailed. You can always read what you missed.”

She liked this better than an awkward apology. Better to move on, she thought, than to pretend things could be different.

“You were probably right about her,” she mumbled.

He winced. “Then…I wish I wasn’t.”

With that he left too. Germaine sighed and dunked her spoon into her congealing porridge once more.

After dinner on Saturday the mood in the Gryffindor common room was surprisingly festive. You might be forgiven for thinking it was them, and not Slytherin, who’d won a Quidditch match that day. Granted, some of the excitement was for the same reason the Quidditch team had watched the morning’s game in high spirits.

Ravenclaw had lost after all, and Gryffindor had breathing room now in its quest for the cup. But the more immediate occasion was an impromptu Exploding Snap tournament, scheduled to start at eight that evening.

Well, impromptu to most of the house. Someone had prepared by putting up posters that morning, as if it were a surprise circus arrival. Lisa Kelly, a fifth year, practically vibrated with delight as she read off the poster for about the tenth time in the space of an hour. 

“It’s the Marauders’ doing,” she said. “It has to be.”

Lisa Kelsoe, her best friend and fellow fifth year, nodded. “You’re probably right. But there’s no point getting excited when it’s in honour of another girl.”

This too had been discussed at length.

Lisa Kelly sighed. “Sure, he doesn’t still fancy her. It’s just a coincidence that it’s her birthday tomorrow.”

“Right, just how it’s a coincidence that her name’s on the poster?”

They glanced at it in unison. It _was_ the inaugural Lily Evans Gryffindor House Exploding Snap tournament. Or so the poster said. 

“Yes. Exactly like that coincidence.”

Lisa Kelsoe laughed. “You’re my best mate, but you can be so thick sometimes.”

At that very moment, Sirius Black appeared behind them. “Bets on the tournament, Lisa? Lisa?”

“Sacred Circe,” Lisa Kelsoe breathed, once she’d recovered from the surprise. “Don’t sneak up on me.”

Sirius did not apologise; he only grinned. This had the desired effect of charming both girls.

“I don’t think I’m going to play,” said Lisa Kelly. “I’m not very good.”

Sirius waved a dismissive hand. “You shouldn’t play if you’re betting, strictly speaking.” He held out a drawstring pouch, already half-full with clinking coins.

Lisa Kelly was caught between the desire to impress an older, good-looking student — and one of the Marauders, no less — and the desire to save her gold for Hogsmeade. Lisa Kelsoe noticed her indecision, and, rolling her eyes, dropped three Sickles into Sirius’s bag.

“It’s her money,” she said. “I owe Lisa a new hairbrush anyhow. Put it on Peter Petti—”

“Put it on James Potter,” Lisa Kelly said firmly.

The Lisas exchanged meaningful looks. Sirius shrugged, backing away. Birds so often spoke without speaking. His mind was more on the betting than on figuring this out.

Upstairs in the Marauders’ dormitory, only Peter and James remained. The former, as reigning Exploding Snap champion, was giving himself a pep talk in the mirror. If he went down too soon, he was certain, he’d be thrown off his game. James was pacing the carpet behind him while pretending to _not_ pace the carpet — that is, by stopping whenever Peter frowned at him and feigning casualness.

He had never given Lily Evans a birthday present before. They had never really been on those terms. He supposed to some extent the tournament was his present to her, along with her friends and his. But it wasn’t a proper gift, not in the way a one-to-one present would be. Not the sort of present her boyfriend would be giving her, certainly. 

Comparing himself to Fortescue was dangerous territory. James backed out of it at once. 

But thinking of Dex Fortescue made James remember the Betty Braithwaite cupboard, and his — possibly misguided — promise to Lily. He had made the occasional nightly excursion these past few weeks (to think, he’d told himself) that had ended in front of the tapestry and the blank wall. But no door had shown itself. He couldn’t at all figure out how it had in the first place.

It made him wonder if they were going about this all wrong — if, perhaps, the cupboard-slash-room moved around, and that was why they hadn’t been able to map it. But they only had the information they had, and so the seventh-floor corridor was all he had to go on. Besides, the Trophy Room was alternately on the third and sixth floors of the castle, and _that_ still showed up on the map just fine.

The corridor in question was empty, as the map showed. Dissatisfied, James searched the parchment for any other points of interest. Most Slytherins were in the dungeon, probably celebrating… Some seventh years were ensconced in the library still — cutting it quite close to eight o’clock, when Pince would unceremoniously toss them out… James noted the dot labelled _Dexter Fortescue_ among them with some satisfaction. 

Right outside the library doors was Lily Evans, probably having just said hello to her boyfriend. James checked his watch. It wasn’t like her to run late, but if she didn’t literally sprint to Gryffindor Tower, she would probably be late for the tournament’s start. Then he noticed the dot some way along the corridor from her, getting closer. _Severus Snape_. He waited for Lily to walk away. But Snape got closer, and closer, until they were obviously in conversation. 

James felt a hot spike of annoyance, and wished he didn’t. 

“Is Lily here yet?” Peter had turned away from the mirror at last, watching his friend with some concern.

“I think she’ll be late,” James said grimly, and tossed the map onto his unmade bed. “C’mon, let’s go.”

The two boys trooped down to the common room in silence.

Lily stopped outside the library to catch her breath. Pince often left the circulation desk ten minutes before the library closed in order to throw out lingering students, and she had only just made it in time to return the book she’d borrowed to the sour-faced librarian.

“This,” Pince had said, “is due tonight.”

“Yes,” Lily said hurriedly. “That’s why I’m here, returning it to you.”

Pince scowled. “Don’t you give me cheek, young lady.” But she’d taken the slim volume, a reference Lily had needed for a History of Magic essay. “You’d best be out of the library in...six minutes. I won’t go looking for you.”

“Right! Of course not—”

But Dex was in the library, and she wanted to say hello before her birthday...even as a part of her complained that _he_ ought to seek _her_ out before her birthday, and then another part of her protested at this whining. Acting on impulse, Lily hurried further into the library, deciding she would take three minutes to search him out.

He had been nowhere to be found, though, and she’d beat a hasty retreat just in time to avoid Pince. If she waited until eight she might run into him on his way out — but her better sense did win out this time, because she was already going to be late for Exploding Snap, after all the trouble her friends had gone to for her last-minute whims… _Thirty more seconds_ , she promised herself, _and then I’ll run to the common room_.

As it turned out, her aspirations ran ahead of her reality. 

“Lily.”

How could she not know that voice? It was a voice that made her feel nine years old again, full with the delight and novelty of magic. But all the years of good memories had been layered over with the new and ugly ones...suspicions, fears, resignation.

For once, when Lily Evans turned to look at Severus Snape, she did so thinking of the latter first and then the former. Maybe that was what it felt like to move on, to really say goodbye to a broken friendship.

His mouth quirked into a half-smile before returning to a thin line, as though his instinctive reaction to her was still joy.

“Severus,” she replied, nothing more than polite. 

He noticed the change, of course; his expression grew shadowed. “Thrilling birthday plans? I hear your new best mates have been hard at work.” As if she hadn’t guessed who he meant, Severus added, “Potter and company, that is.”

Lily made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sigh. So much had changed this year, but she was still caught in this pattern — this circular conversation she’d been having for years. Except, perspective fundamentally altered how she approached it.

She pressed a hand to her forehead. “You really _are_ obsessed with them, God.”

Severus’s face hardened even more. “I didn’t expect you of all people to fall under their spell—”

“ _I’m_ not the one under anyone’s spell.” The words were more tired than heated. “I’m going to go now. I have somewhere to be, and you have patrol tonight.” 

She’d only taken a few steps before she stopped once more. Half-turning, Lily looked at her former best friend again. He hadn’t moved an inch. She’d always thought she would come of age with him. 

“I’m going to find out what’s going on in the seventh-floor corridor,” she said. She meant it as a promise, and she knew _he_ knew what her promises sounded like. “And you can’t stop me.”

For a moment — just a moment — he looked afraid. But then Severus was cold once more.

“On your own head be it,” he said softly, and left the way he’d come.

* * *

_ii. The Inaugural Lily Evans Gryffindor House Exploding Snap Tournament_

It was precisely nine minutes after eight. A horde of Gryffindors — from lanky, grinning seventh years to thrilled second years — were gathered in the common room, where a fire blazed in the hearth. They stared, rapt and attentive, at Remus Lupin, who stood in the centre of their circle.

“Any questions? Remember, we’re playing Bavarian rules.”

“The superior rule system,” Peter cut in.

A third year raised her hand. “Yes, um, I didn’t pay the tournament fee? Can I still play?”

Remus looked taken aback. “There...isn’t a tournament fee.”

“Sirius Black said there was.”

Remus gave Sirius a look of chastisement. “He’ll give your money back. And anyone else who paid a tournament fee.”

“It wasn’t an entrance fee. It was a bet, as you know full well, Polly,” Sirius said, not looking ashamed in the slightest.

“Any _other_ questions?” said Remus pointedly.

The portrait swung open at that moment, revealing a panting Lily Evans. 

“It’s not too late to join, is it?” she said.

James Potter did not want to look up at her from where he sat, in an armchair at prime distance from the fire, but he found himself doing it anyway. 

“No, not at all,” Remus said, beaming at her. 

“Sorry, sorry—” She pushed her way through the assembled students, plopping down on the carpet beside Mary not far from where James sat. “I was returning that blasted book Binns made us use and Pince was awful as usual—” James heard her say.

“Bitch,” Mary said, rolling her eyes.

“ _Mary_.”

“What? Pince _is_ a bitch. My feminist card doesn’t get revoked by my saying so.”

“Round one brackets are—” Remus called “—group A, Isobel Park, Dorcas Walker, Andrew Stevens, and Peter Pettigrew—” 

Peter bowed; Doe narrowed her eyes at him in warning. “You haven’t won yet!” she called, to much hooting.

“—and group H, whom I’m obligated as a friend to tell _should_ play to lose so Lily Evans can advance—” Remus was saying, grinning in Lily’s direction “—Eddie McKinnon, Lisa Kelsoe, Lily herself, and James Potter.”

His friends had made these brackets, so James supposed this shouldn’t have surprised him. It was a multipurpose choice, and part of him appreciated the efficiency of it. If he really _was_ getting over her, then this would be another way to test himself. He saw this logic in the challenging arch of Sirius’s brows. If he wasn’t over her...then this would help him face the facts. Peter wasn’t bothering to hide his small, satisfied smile. 

But James was nothing if not stubborn. If his mates wanted to promote — _introspection_ , or whatever the fuck, he would determinedly avoid it. They exchanged glances, all four of them, and he saw them all clock his decision at once. _Come on_ , Peter mouthed. James took the deck of cards from Remus with a pointed look and joined his group. 

“I hope you’re all ready to lose,” Lily was telling Eddie and Lisa, rubbing her hands together gleefully.

Jamea was definitely not charmed.

“You’re the one who’s shit at Exploding Snap,” he said, sitting down.

Lily gave him an affronted look.

“What? Remus told me so.”

Lily gave Remus an affronted look.

Several onlookers clustered around their circle. A very giggly Lisa Kelly said “Good luck, everyone!” and gave her best mate a wide, meaningful smile. 

“Thanks, Lisa,” James said, and she dissolved into still more giggles. Across from him, Lily coughed but did not quite succeed in hiding her own laughter.

Grinning despite himself, James fished out his wand as the cards began to shuffle themselves. He was all right at Exploding Snap, thanks to Quidditch reflexes and years of playing against a shockingly good Peter. But it was clear that of their group Lisa Kelsoe was bound to win — her wand shot out seconds before James’s time and time again. A smug smile had begun to creep across her face. 

Remus had not been lying; Lily was honestly abysmal, muttering to herself like a batty old woman as she played and fumbling for points after they’d passed with a soft “Drat!” As the deck dwindled, James was careful to target Lisa’s points so as to close the gap between them.

He thought he’d have a decent chance at it too — until, with a massive, game-winning set waiting to be collected, Lily hovered her wand hand over the cards and hummed to herself for a solid twenty seconds. James thought, _I should just push her arm away_ , but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The same indecision was written all over Lisa’s face, though, if James were being honest, it was probably not for the same reason. 

“Hurry it _up_ ,” Lisa said through clenched teeth.

“What? Oh!” Lily withdrew her hand, and James and Lisa pounced.

The cards exploded.

“Jesus sodding Christ,” James gasped — first at the heat, which had surely singed his eyebrows, and then at the jet of water Lily shot his way.

“Oh, sorry, I was trying to help,” said Lily, sounding unduly pleased. James scowled at her, taking off his glasses to wipe them.

“Match, here!” one of their audience members called, and Remus came over to confirm that the cards had indeed all been used up.

“Group H, Lily wins,” said Remus.

 _“What?”_ said James and Lisa Kelsoe.

Lily grinned at them both. “Well, you forfeited points equivalent to the ones you set off — which was quite a lot, by the way — and I was beating Eddie already. So I win.”

In the silence that followed, Lisa said, “Bloody Bavarian rules.”

James looked down at the cards, gobsmacked. “You _planned_ it,” he said, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

“Me?” Lily rose to her feet, dusting the residual ash from her jumper. “But I couldn’t have. I’m shit at Exploding Snap.” With a final smile she stepped out of their circle.

He followed; of course he did. (He missed the crestfallen expressions of both Lisas — the one having taken in the look James had given Lily, the other realising her three Sickles were lost along with her hopes of winning the tournament.) 

“Enjoying yourself, now that you’re going to cheat your way to victory?” James said.

She was smiling; her green eyes shone. He wished he could look at something else, but his gaze was drawn to her, again and again. 

“I didn’t cheat. It was a bit of gamesmanship, I’ll admit, but _you’re_ no stranger to that.”

“I win fair and square, every time I win. Which is a lot of the time.”

“Somehow your bragging feels hollow after you just lost.”

“I’m reminding you of the way things stand, normally. Tonight’s an exception.”

She leaned closer to him. He registered the freckles on the bridge of her nose.

“Why’s that?” she said.

With effort, James leaned away and remained impassive. “I was told to let the birthday girl win, and I’m a gentleman.”

Lily snorted a laugh, then covered her mouth. “Which one is it? Did I cheat, or did you throw the game?”

He shrugged. “Maybe a little bit of both.”

An arm was thrown around his shoulders — Sirius, his drawstring pouch clutched in one hand. “Care for a bet, now that you’ve been knocked out?”

“Let the pain fade before you come over trying to extort me,” James said, rolling his eyes.

“Never,” said Sirius with cheer. “Now that I’m no longer wealthy—”

“Your uncle left you a small fortune.”

“—now that I’m _no longer wealthy_ , I need the profit margin.”

Remus appeared out of nowhere, grabbing the pouch. “The profit margin is the prize money, Sirius.”

“The fuck? What do I get for calculating odds all evening?”

“It’s all right, James,” Lily cut in. “You can bet on me, and you’re sure to win. Who knows, maybe I’ll spare a bit of the prize money for you as thanks.”

“There’s no prize money,” said Sirius pointedly. “The prize is a trophy.”

“A trophy? Oh, can I see it?”

“No,” said James. “And you’re very confident for someone whose strategy was to be in third place for most of that game.”

“You’re a sore loser, aren’t you?” Lily laughed. 

She patted him on the arm and joined the group A onlookers. James did not watch her go.

“Christ, you needed rescuing,” said Sirius, rolling his eyes.

He had watched her go, a little. 

“ _Try_ and stick to your friends resolution, yeah? Everyone can see you making eyes at her.”

“I’m not making eyes at her,” James said.

“All right, James,” said Remus.

In her absence, he tried to remind himself of the frustration he’d felt not so long ago upon seeing her and Snape on the map. Maybe her sunny mood had come from patching things up with him.

But it was so difficult staying angry with her. Tonight was a prime Lily Evans night: her red hair shone in the firelight, mirth gave her face a glow. The word James was carefully avoiding was _beautiful_. It was terrible to know that befriending her hadn’t changed that — had made it worse, somehow. 

It was half past ten when Mary, Doe, and Germaine cornered Peter.

Well, maybe _cornered_ was putting it strongly. The crowd had stuck around to watch the final match of the tournament; someone had broken out bottles of Butterbeer, which were now being passed around before the game began. The girls hovered pointedly around Peter, Butterbeers in hand.

“You’re here to tell me to throw the match,” said Peter.

“No!” Doe said.

“Not at all,” Germaine said.

“On the contrary,” said Mary. “Lily needs to win the honest way, although I can’t for the life of me understand why.”

“You wouldn’t understand honour if it bit you in the arse, Mare,” Germaine said fondly. 

“What we mean to say is,” Doe went on, “make sure you put up a good fight.”

Peter glanced between them, indignant. “Of course I will! I don’t plan on losing. I haven’t lost a game of Exploding Snap since I was eight.”

“Famous last words,” Lily called.

She and Peter joined Bert Mallory, one of the Gryffindor Beaters, and a fourth year named Evelyn Waspwing in the final circle. A round of cheers went around the audience. Looking at her grinning housemates, Lily wondered that she had felt homesick at all just the day before. Even when school was difficult — and Merlin, it so often found new ways to be difficult — it was still Hogwarts. It was magical, it was welcoming, it was home away from home.

“No elbowing, no spitting, and certainly no non-verbal hexing,” Remus told the players. He held up the deck of cards and it floated towards them, shuffling itself as it went. Lily gripped her wand tight in her clammy hand, and tried not to look at Peter’s serene expression.

The cards flipped face up. Lily’s hand shot out almost of its own accord, nabbing a pair of Hebridean Blacks. 

“First blood,” muttered Peter. Evelyn shushed him and took the second point.

For all the friendly ribbing the previous matches had contained, this one was played in deathly silence — on their part, at least. The audience cheered at every point, yelled and ducked when Bert Mallory’s cards exploded, and quieted as the deck wound down. It was a terribly close game but—

“That’s...the match for Lily,” said Remus into the hush. (“Sacred Circe,” whispered Lisa Kelly.)

Lily leapt to her feet and whooped. The sound of it was almost enough to obscure Peter’s moaning. She seized the first person at hand — Dorcas, thankfully — and hugged her. 

“I won!” she crowed. She detached herself from Doe and pointed at Peter, who was watching her glumly. “I _beat_ you, and you actually wanted to win!”

“Why are you so shocked?” said Peter with profound bitterness. “You strategised your way to the final round anyway.”

“Oh, it was a fluke, really. I’m awful at Exploding Snap. I just did what I could and hoped for the best.”

His jaw dropped. Lily burst into laughter, hauling Mary and Germaine into her arms as well.

“It was so lovely of you to do this. It’s really taken my mind off — everything.”

Germaine, whose arms were wrapped around her waist, gave her a squeeze. “Of course, silly. Now, our gifts are ready to be opened tomorrow morning, but by request this one is supposed to get to you early.”

“What?”

Mary tugged her to a quieter corner of the room. They squeezed onto a sofa, and she pulled a little velvet box and a letter from her pocket. At first Lily looked at the box and thought _Dex?_ But it didn’t look like a jewellery case, and she’d have been quite mortified if he’d spent real money on her. She took the box, anticipation rising in her chest, and worked it open.

Inside was a slim gold wristwatch, with a pearlescent face and a clasp that made it look more like a bracelet than a watch. It was delightfully impractical — Lily didn’t think she could wear it for fear of breaking it — but it was _gorgeous_. The hands were set to midnight, frozen and waiting for her to start them.

“Oh,” Lily breathed, “it’s beautiful. It’s — who sent it?” If her friends had cobbled together the gold for it, she would cry at once. She wouldn’t have been able to accept it.

Mary laughed as if she were being dense on purpose. “Your mum, stupid. Here, the letter goes with it.”

She took the letter in shaking fingers, uncomprehending. But it couldn’t be — hadn’t her mum said to expect her present on Sunday? And the watch was clearly too expensive… The letter, though, was in her mother’s familiar hand. 

> _Dear Lily,_
> 
> _Happy, happy birthday. I know you’ll expect to hear from me only on Sunday, but I thought you deserved a surprise. Petunia reminded me that the traditional magical gift when you turn seventeen is a watch, and when I saw this one I knew it was perfect. Don’t you worry about the how of it — that’s your mother’s concern. I am so proud of the lively, intelligent, caring young woman you’ve grown into. As much credit as I want to take for it, most of it is your due. I couldn’t be happier to call you my daughter._
> 
> _I think of you every day. I think of how proud your father would be to see you now — how proud he is, wherever he’s watching us from. Wear this watch and start it at midnight, so it can keep you company as you walk into adulthood._
> 
> _All my love,_
> 
> _Mum_

“Oh,” Lily said again, and found she was crying.

“Don’t cry,” Doe said, swiping away her tears with a thumb.

Lily gave a shaky laugh, drying her cheeks. How had Petunia even known about watches? She couldn’t remember mentioning it. But she must have. And her sister had remembered. For all that Severus reminded her of her childhood, she had someone else from back then too. And Petunia was complicated too, of course she was, but she was her _sister_ , and this was proof that things between them weren’t altogether irreparable.

She took off the worn watch she had on already and fumbled with the new one, trying to do the catch one-handed before Germaine leaned over and put it on for her. 

“Doris really has taste,” Mary said admiringly, making all four of them laugh.

“She does,” said Lily, unable to contribute anything more meaningful to the conversation just yet. For this shining moment, everything was _good_.

The girls sat in silence for some time, the festivities continuing around them. Finally Lily stood, needing something to do — and it was almost eleven, the youngest students ought to be ushered to bed soon… She collected her friends’ empty Butterbeer bottles, ignoring their protests, and moved through the crowd to dispose of them. 

“Cleaning up before the party’s even over?” James said, appearing beside her.

Lily gave him a small smile. Now that the adrenaline of the tournament had worn off, she was the slightest bit embarrassed by how she’d acted around him. Somehow the gusto and cheek of her summer self had come over her — or the energy of a far younger, left-behind Lily. It was probably _too much_. Too annoying, or laughable, or downright bizarre.

Instead of answering his question, she asked one of her own. “Are you going to show me the trophy yet?” 

“I don’t have it. But you should stop by the Trophy Room tomorrow.”

“The Trophy Room?”

“ _Yes_ , the Trophy Room. Stop fishing.” He handed her a pouch — the very same one that Sirius had been toting around all afternoon. “Your winnings. Remus and I had to wrestle them away from Sirius, so I’d steer clear of him for a while.”

Lily laughed, taking the pouch. She saw that the posters around the common room — previously announcing the start time of the tournament — now read _Congratulations, Lily Evans, winner of the inaugural Lily Evans Gryffindor House Exploding Snap Tournament_ in Doe’s flowing script.

Her friends had done this... _for her_. She had been distracted and secretive and distant and they had still done this for her. And Remus was certainly her friend, and Peter was a sweetheart, but Sirius was Sirius and James was _James_. If you had told her in September that the latter would have a hand, at all, in making her seventeenth birthday special, Lily would have been shocked.

“Thank you,” she said, fiddling with the pouch’s strings as she looked up at James. “You didn’t have to do all this. I mean, it was very good of you.” Not _nice_ , or _kind_ , or _sweet_ , Lily thought, but _good_. Wholly well-intentioned and reflective of an innate something. 

James sighed, rocking back on his heels as if her words were a burden to bear — though his smile didn’t entirely fade. “I didn’t do much.”

“It isn’t like you to deflect praise.”

“It isn’t like you to be late, but you were late earlier tonight.”

Lily frowned. Had she said something wrong? “It isn’t like you to keep tabs on me.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s _really_ like you to argue.”

“Are we arguing? Because I don’t know why.” Wrongness was puncturing her good mood, like a needle to a balloon.

“We’re not arguing,” James said after a moment. “Sorry. Happy birthday. I’d better go see what that’s about.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, where a seventh year was arguing with Sirius and Peter. 

Lily wasn’t sure what to say — thank you? I’m sorry? She didn’t know what she felt like apologising for. But the easy way they’d had while playing Exploding Snap had vanished. Things were simple with him until they weren’t.

“Right. Thanks,” she said once she’d found her voice. 

He gave her a wave and sauntered off. Lily turned around just so she would not watch him go, and so she was in the perfect spot to see the portrait swing open to reveal a flustered, breathless Colin Rollins.

“Prefects!” he shouted.

At first, people did not hear him. Lily moved towards him automatically, guiltily — it was late, and they were probably being noisy, and _her_ name was plastered all over the common room walls. Perhaps that didn’t account for the Head Boy’s frazzled look, but Colin had his peculiarities. Maybe he couldn’t stand the idea of the Gryffindors having this much fun. 

“I’m sorry, we’ll send the younger students to bed,” she said.

He gave her a grim nod, but raised his voice once more. “Everyone! Get to your dorms, _right_ now. Professor McGonagall will be by to ensure the common room is empty. And it’s past curfew, but let me remind you that no one is to leave the tower. _No_ one.”

Only then did Lily wonder if this panic had an entirely different cause.

“Colin, is everything all right?”

His gaze snapped to hers; he swallowed. He was afraid, she realised. A chill crept into her veins.

“Yes. No. I mean— Look, I don’t want students going off to investigate, so I’d rather not talk. Merlin knows everyone will find out by tomorrow anyway.”

She didn’t understand any of it. “Find out what? Is… Has someone been hurt?”

Colin looked away. This was enough confirmation for Lily, who felt a weight drop like a stone in her stomach.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get everyone in bed. I’m sure the prefects can wake up every now and then to make sure…”

She glanced over her shoulder; the other prefects had realised this was serious, and were shepherding students up the staircases. Her friends were waiting by the foot of the girls’ staircase wearing identical worried expressions. Lily gave them a smile and a thumbs up, but her heart was not in it. It seemed as though the evening’s merriment had been just an illusion, shattered by the real world.

“Right. As long as things are under control, I should head back.” Colin gave her a terse nod. “Thanks, Evans.”

He was gone before she could say _no problem_. Lily burned with the need to know what had happened — but she was no idiot. Leaving was a very silly idea, given how worried Colin had looked. The last few stragglers were headed up to their dorms, but Peter and James still hovered nearby. She did not want to scold them, but she couldn’t in good conscience go off to sleep and pretend she didn’t know what they were thinking of doing…

“You should both be in bed,” she called as she walked in their direction.

They exchanged glances. 

“You should be in bed, now that you’ve done your job,” James said. He was holding a piece of parchment in his hands; he angled it away from her.

“Colin said someone was hurt. Whoever hurt them could still be—”

“—around, with all the Aurors and professors out of bed?” James shook his head. “Just go, Evans. We’re not planning anything.”

Lily bit her lip, wondering if she ought to call him out on such a baldfaced lie. But he had that mulish look on his face, the one she knew would not budge for anything. Given how tenuous their friendship had felt just minutes ago, she was afraid that pushing now would lead to a break. 

So she shrugged and walked up the stairs, knowing she would lie awake for hours. Moving on autopilot, she took off the new watch and set it on her bedside table before sliding under the covers. She would not remember to start it, as her mother had told her to, until past noon the next day, the twelve nervous, restless hours in between like a waking dream. _So this_ , she would think as she fiddled with the knob and set the watch to match Doe’s, _is adulthood_.

* * *

_iii. The Way Things Stand_

It took eight minutes for James Potter, Sirius Black, and Peter Pettigrew to disobey Lily’s directive.

Sirius could not be caught out of bed, and at first a whispered argument had ensued on the subject. Finally Remus had conceded (thrown up his hands and said, “Oh, do you what you want!”) and James and Sirius had ducked under the Cloak and slipped out of the portrait hole. Peter followed in his rat form. The excitement of a nighttime excursion was muted; the boys were alert, as close as they could be to _worried_ , as they studied the map. 

The point of disturbance was in the armour gallery, it seemed. They had never seen so many professors’ dots clustered in one place before, save perhaps the Start-of-Term Feast. All four heads of house were present, as were Professor Thorpe, Edgar Bones and Ethelbert Fawley, Marissa Beasley and Crollins, and Filch and Mrs. Norris. Pomfrey was bustling around the Hospital Wing, though more than one student was in the infirmary for the night and it was unclear who exactly had been hurt. Most significant of all, though, was the dot labelled _Albus Dumbledore_ in the Hospital Wing. if the headmaster himself had been roused from bed, things were really serious.

James searched the map, as he so often did when confronted with a mishap at Hogwarts, for Snape. He and Thalia Greengrass were moving towards the dungeons; only one other student was out of bed ahead of them, one Olivia Nott. He frowned, distracted enough that he nearly tripped over the hem of the Cloak.

“Christ, watch out,” Sirius muttered.

James mumbled an apology as they entered the Trophy Room. The Protean Charm placed on the trophies there earlier had already taken effect; the shields and plaques read _Lily J. Evans, Winner, Inaugural Lily Evans Gryffindor House Exploding Snap Tournament (1977)_. The idea had been Germaine’s — since the trophies would celebrate Lily regardless of who won — and James had executed it. What a laugh it had seemed before; now the trophies looked too cheerful by far. 

“Here, squeaky squeaky!” a voice crooned in the darkness; Peeves, hanging from the chandelier, swooped down upon Peter, who did indeed squeal and dash out of sight. Sirius swore quietly. The boys finally slipped through to the armour gallery — and stopped short. 

It was always amusing to see professors in their dressing gowns at nighttime — McGonagall in tartan, Sprout in paisley, Flitwick in chintz, and Slughorn in stripes — but it seemed like a unique horror now. Like laughing at a broken bone, because it seemed too _wrong_ to be real. Splashed across the wall in bold black letters was the phrase BLOOD WILL FIGHT BACK. Flitwick and Thorpe were waving their wands at the message, but it did not budge.

“We’ll have to get it off the old-fashioned way, I expect,” said Edgar Bones grimly.

“I’ll sort it out,” said Flitwick, his face set in determination. “I’ll sort it out if it takes me all night.”

“Filius—” McGonagall began, but the Charms professor shook his head.

“Impervious or not, there _is_ a way around it…”

Turning to Marissa and Crollins, McGonagall said, “The prefects have been gone too long. Would you—”

“Go after them?” Marissa finished. “Yes, Professor. We’ll bring them right back.”

“I should come with you,” Slughorn said, though he looked incredibly reluctant. “They’re all my students, after all… Oh, terrible, terrible…”

His students? James’s frown deepened. Maybe Snape _was_ involved, the great prat… 

“I don’t understand,” Sprout said as Slughorn, Marissa, and Crollins disappeared in the direction of the dungeons. “I simply don’t understand how, with all the people patrolling tonight, this could have escaped our notice.” She looked askance at Filch — not exactly accusatory, but certainly questioning.

“Having spoken to Peeves—” McGonagall looked incredibly weary at the thought of the poltergeist “—I think some of the blame can be placed on the itinerant Trophy Room. It may have bounced between the sixth floor and the third tonight—”

"I told you, Professor McGonagall, I told you it was the Trophy Room — the poor things, with that blasted poltergeist spoiling them—" Filch cut in.

McGonagall gave him a quelling look. "I am sure you're expressing sympathy for the victim, Filch, and not inanimate objects."

The caretaker looked cowed. "I only meant — I was on the sixth floor, Professor, and heard a ruckus in the room, came rushing right back to investigate it only the room was gone — had to walk down three floors—"

"If Mr. McIlhenny had wound up on the wrong floor having gone through the Trophy Room," McGonagall began thoughtfully.

“He could have been ambushed,” Thorpe said, nodding. “Although, Minerva, it would take a stroke of good fortune to be waiting on the third floor just as the Trophy Room moved.”

“Are you suggesting that there were — multiple conspirators involved?” said Flitwick, turning his attention away from the wall.

Thorpe shrugged. “One on each floor, ready to catch him wherever he landed up. Honestly, having taught Nott, she’d need the help. I can’t imagine her taking McIlhenny down very easily.”

Sprout scoffed. “But why would Olivia Nott want to attack him so badly? Why would she know where he was going?”

“I expect we’ll have more answers when Poppy revives him,” said McGonagall, putting an end to the speculation.

James exchanged a glance with Sirius, who mouthed _revive?_

“We can go over curse shields at the next Duelling Club,” Fawley said; Bones nodded agreement.

Thorpe sighed. “I’ll give everyone a short lesson in my classes next week. Merlin knows I shouldn’t have to teach that to first and second years…”

James felt a pressure on his foot; he looked down to see Peter, still in rat form, standing on his toes pointedly. _What?_ he tried to convey with his gaze. The rat pointed along the corridor. Mrs. Norris had gone very still, save for her twitching tail, and was staring in their direction. That was their cue.

For a moment James wanted to suggest they visit the Hospital Wing and find out what had happened to McIlhenny, but getting around Dumbledore was too much risk. He jerked his head towards the Trophy Room — which seemed stable for now — and the three boys scuttled back to Gryffindor Tower, none but Mrs. Norris the wiser.

Colin Rollins was wrong about most things, but he had correctly estimated the pace and zeal of the Hogwarts rumour mill. By breakfast the next morning everyone _did_ know what had happened. Gerry McIlhenny, a burly fifth year Muggle-born student in Hufflepuff, had been hit with a curse and left in the armour gallery on the third floor.

Any worse and he’d have had to be sent to St. Mungo’s, apparently, but the prefects on patrol had found him in time, and he was recovering in the Hospital Wing. They’d even caught the culprit, who hadn’t been able to get back to her bed in time. 

The Great Hall was abuzz with discussion. Sprout, Slughorn, and Dumbledore were absent from breakfast, but McGonagall gazed down at the students sternly, seemingly caught between hushing them and staying silent.

The Aurors walking up and down the aisles looked worn and sleep-tousled. Kingsley Shacklebolt was shaking his head as he paced — recalled temporarily from the Hogsmeade investigation, or so rumour claimed — and across the hall, Marlene McKinnon muttered, “Oh, seven hells,” as she gave a weeping Ravenclaw a handkerchief.

“No way was it Olivia Nott,” said James as he took a swig of pumpkin juice. “I’d bet my bloody broom on it.”

“Well, betting your broom won’t save her,” Remus said, sighing. “Supposedly her wand cast the curse. They’re suspending her — I saw her parents in the Entrance Hall earlier.”

Undeterred, James jabbed a fork in the air. “That’s proof of nothing. Anyone could’ve taken her wand and cast the spell. Anyone could’ve — Confunded her, even—”

“She remembers doing it,” Peter said in an undertone. “Least, that’s what I heard.”

“Imperiused, then!” 

“Come off it, Prongs…”

“You heard Thorpe last night.” James’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She taught Nott Defence Against the Dark Arts. If _she_ thinks she couldn’t have cast that curse, well…”

“Thorpe also said she might’ve had help,” Sirius pointed out. “And, really, mate, it’s not like Olivia Nott is this shining paragon who deserves your defence. She’s Avery’s first cousin, and she holds her nose when she walks past Muggleborns in the corridors.”

“Who she’s related to is hardly an indication of her guilt,” James said, but he sensed he was fighting a losing battle. “I just think something isn’t right. I mean, Snape and Greengrass—”

“—found him.” This came from Lily, a short distance down the table.

James met her gaze coolly. “Oh, yeah? Is that what he’s saying?”

A crease appeared between her brows. “I don’t talk to him, so I wouldn’t know what he’s saying. But he and Thalia were the prefects on duty. Prefects found Gerard McIlhenny. It’s a simple two-and-two.”

He relaxed, despite himself, upon hearing _I don’t talk to him_. Stupid, stupid. More importantly, he did not think Snape discovering the victim saved him from suspicion at all. If anything it put him in the right place at the right time...

“Anyway,” Lily sighed, “I’m sure the additional Aurors will figure out if Olivia Nott had help, and who helped her.” There was a drawn paleness in her face; James regretted snapping at her. He too would not have wanted to wake up to this news on his birthday.

“The additional Aurors are supposed to be solving a murder,” Sirius grumbled. “No offence to McIlhenny, because whoever cursed him _should_ get fucked, but — seems as though the bigger concern is the Dark Mark someone cast over Hogsmeade just a month ago.”

Had it already been a month? Lily turned away at those words, wishing she could block out the conversation. But _every_ one around her was talking about what had happened. Several more sleepless nights were in her purview, it seemed. 

It did not help that she and her friends had seen the message on the wall on their way to breakfast. Mary had suggested they go through the Trophy Room so Lily could be cheered up, even a little, by her name on all the shields in it. All four of them had sensed that once they arrived in the Great Hall and heard the details of the previous night, they would not be in the mood to enjoy anything.

And Lily had laughed a bit, until they came through to the armour gallery and saw Filch scrubbing at letters on the stone wall. He was only halfway through, but the meaning was quite clear: BLOOD WILL FIGH, it read. 

“That slogan sounded a bit Thorpe to me,” Doe said. “Marcel Thorpe, I mean. Lily, Mare, I don’t think you two should walk around the castle alone anymore. Someone should go with you to the common room on Monday mornings while we’re in Herbology, Mary, maybe a seventh year has a free period—”

Lily groaned — but not because she disagreed. Her friends looked at her, frowning.

“What’s the matter?” said Germaine. “Well, what specifically is the matter, I mean.”

“ _Everything_. There’s so many little things to worry about, constantly, and now I have to be on my guard against curses in the corridors?” Danger was getting closer and closer, it seemed. First Hogsmeade, now the castle itself… 

“Lily, love,” Dorcas began.

“It’s — it’s all right, I’m all right.” Lily sucked in a deep breath. “Dex and I are...in a funny spot right now, and having that on top of _life and death concerns_ is frustrating.”

“Well, we’ve...noticed,” said Mary delicately. “We saw he wasn’t at the tournament yesterday. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Oh, how stupid to talk about boys and not—” She waved a hand at the Great Hall.

“We’ve talked the message to death. At this point the conversation isn’t reassuring,” said Doe.

Germaine added, “You have to tell us things if you want us to help, you know.”

Lily looked at each of them in turn. The secret room, the duelling Slytherins, Severus, James, Dex… The duelling Slytherins, James, the secret room, Severus, Dex… James, Severus, _I slept with my boyfriend_ , the secret room, the—

“I don’t think you can help,” she said. “It’s just something I have to...consider and sort out.” This was something of a fib, but Lily did not want to spend what was left of her seventeenth birthday crying to her friends. 

“When you’re ready to talk about it, you let us know,” said Germaine, smiling hopefully.

Lily nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Mary, with her preternatural ability to sense when a change of subject was in order, straightened in her seat.

“In the interest of discussing trivial things,” she said, “Doc is going with Marissa to Hogsmeade next month. For Valentine’s Day. So I suppose that’s that.”

“Did you speak to him after Evan’s?” Doe frowned. “I thought you said he didn’t sleep with her.” 

“Well, no, I didn’t,” Mary confessed. “I was hoping _he’d_ speak to _me_.”

“Oh, Mare—”

“He and Marissa do have history,” Germaine said, shrugging.

The three other girls looked at her, astonished.

“They don’t,” Mary said, eyes wide. “Do they?”

Germaine was herself stunned to know something they didn’t. “I thought so. I mean, I saw them at Hogsmeade last year, I think, and they were holding hands… I mean, maybe they were friends who hold hands. I dunno.”

“How did I not _know?”_

“He strikes me as being rather quiet about relationships,” Doe said. Her eyes were full of worry.

Lily chimed in, grateful to have something to add. “And they’ve been friends for a long time, so people might not have noticed when things changed.”

“What month, last year?” said Mary urgently.

Germaine frowned. “It was cold, I remember that. February, maybe?”

Lily and Germaine did not know the significance of the timing, but Doe and Mary exchanged a glance. If Doc had been seeing Marissa in January too… if he had kissed Mary _while_ he’d been dating her… Well, that explained why he’d been so cold with her afterwards. But surely Marissa didn’t know, because they were still friends.

Mary thought of Amelia Bones and Chris Townes. She’d learned her lesson since fourth year. Getting in the middle of other people’s relationships was a dreadful idea. To have done so unintentionally… She felt a bit cheated herself. To think he might have used her that way, and she’d been chasing a _cheater_ for a year… 

“I’m sorry,” Germaine said, noticing but misreading her concern. “I just assumed you knew — I mean, when we saw them together last term… I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

Mary breathed out through her nostrils, trying to steady herself. “I suppose it’s in the unexpected details.”

And though they had tried to divert the conversation to easier subjects, the girls fell once more into worried silence. Outside the Great Hall's enormous windows, snow began to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> most relevant news: as the fic summary now says, you will get weekly updates for the foreseeable future! aka as long as this urge to write lasts :")
> 
> first off, in this chapter i have played fast and loose with 1. exploding snap, bavarian rules, 2. gambling, and 3. hogwarts interiors. i don't know anything about gambling. and, well, all of exploding snap is made up anyway. the moving trophy room i'd chalk up to a canonical error (in the books it appears on the 3rd and the 6th floor on separate occasions) but i thought it would be fun to have it move. hey, it helped the plot too!
> 
> it has come to my attention that a startling number of people left kudos and read last week's update. thank you so very much! out of curiosity, did you new readers find come together somewhere on the internet or just by some good old-fashioned tag searching?
> 
> as mary says, it's in the unexpected details, and i have been merrily dropping hints to various mysteries — big and small — that i can't wait to see through/reveal. granted, plenty of them are red herrings to confuse the characters *and* you, lol. (i finally had to make a colour-coded flow chart of who's kissing/hooking up with whom, past and present, and it's so much easier to keep everything straight now. it almost makes me want to make a cast of characters for you guys to reference since this fic is probably going to be like... between 60 and 70 chapters long but there's no way i could keep it spoiler-free.) 
> 
> the next three chapters will probably also be very long monstrosities, and then i might try something new just to give us all a breather... but because i feel like being a tease! in the next two chapters, TWO (2) of the girls will have significant kisses and ONE (1) will have a significant argument :) place your bets!
> 
> i hope you enjoyed reading, and please do leave a comment. take care, everyone!
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	17. Asked and Unanswered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Lily's boyfriend has been sort of ghosting her since they had sex. She asks James for help figuring out the Room of Requirement, but doesn't tell him she suspects about the Slytherins and Alec Rosier meeting there. Rosier gets a mission from his Death Eater brother. A Muggle-born student in Hufflepuff is cursed by a random Slytherin, but James thinks Snape was involved. Germaine has a crush on Emmeline Vance. James hooked up with someone on the night of Evan's party. Sirius knows his brother has been learning Dark magic from Snape etc., including Sectumsempra.
> 
> NOW: James learns the perils of eavesdropping, comes to his senses, and asks a girl out. Lily finds unexpected comfort on the anniversary of her father's death. Germaine forgives and is forgiven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot occurs here... I hope you enjoy the shippiness and don't hate me by the end... As the summary might suggest, there is a brief discussion of Lily's father's death in this chapter.

_i. Twist and Shout_

“Remember, children, the three Ds!” trilled the Apparition instructor, one Araminta Belby, a shockingly small witch whose shockingly large glasses made her look like a pygmy owl. 

“I’ve forgotten them already,” Peter muttered, staring morosely at the wooden hoop in front of him.

One spot over, Remus gave a sympathetic sigh. “Think of it as Transfiguration — Vanishing yourself, sort of, then bringing yourself back — it’s not as if you haven’t done advanced magic on yourself before—”

“That’s different.” Peter glanced at James and Sirius. More accurately, that was something he’d done with them, but it wasn’t as though his mates could help him Apparate. And worst of all, as the only one of the Marauders born after the first Apparition test date, he really would be on his own when he was trying to get a license… 

“Quiet, Pettigrew,” Professor McGonagall said, striding past him.

On Remus’s other side, Sirius was concentrating on something a touch further than his hoop.

“Why’s Mulciber here?” he whispered.

Remus followed his gaze to the seventh year Slytherin, frowning slightly. “Maybe he failed so badly last year, he has to take the classes again.” Sirius barked out a laugh, looking to see if James was laughing along.

As it turned out, James had not heard. This was because by an odd stroke of luck (or bad luck, however you looked at it) he was standing in front of Lily Evans, who was next to Germaine King. James didn’t _want_ to eavesdrop — in fact, he had been scrupulously trying not to — but the girls were bad at keeping their voices down. He had half a mind to tell them he could hear, or suggest they cast _Muffliato_ , but the nature of the conversation was such that he desperately did not want them to know he’d heard anything at all.

“I hate to give you the same advice,” Germaine was saying, “but you do have to talk to him.”

“But I’ve left it a whole month. It’ll seem like I’ve been stewing,” said Lily.

“You _have_ been stewing.”

“Well, I don’t want him to know I’ve been stewing!”

“ _Lily_.”

“What if I talk to him and—” Lily dropped her voice, but sadly, James could _still hear her_. “—and it turns out I really am bad in bed?”

James coughed very loudly. A few rows over, Professor Sprout gave him a warning look, as though she worried his coughing was some indication of mischief. What were the three Ds again? Araminta Belby sailed past him, and, with a sense of profound relief, James flagged her down by waving a hand at her. Belby didn’t look pleased to be hailed this way, rather like a taxi, but she did stop.

“Yes?” she said.

“Er,” said James, who was at a loss for what to ask her now that he’d succeeded in drawing her attention. Anything, _anything_ , to get Lily and Germaine to stay quiet. “What’s the second D?”

“ _Dee_ -termination,” Araminta Belby pronounced imperiously, as though this were the word of God. All too soon she glided away, and the girls’ conversation resumed. 

James was not by nature a patient person, and he thought he was about five seconds away from Splinching himself on purpose. Or maybe he’d have managed it by accident anyway. Every ounce of concentration he had was currently engaged in _not_ thinking about Lily and her boyfriend having sex. To be precise: Lily and her boyfriend having sex, and him treating her poorly after it. He wasn’t under any illusions about where he figured in Lily Evans’s life, but for the first time in a while James felt a real, unpleasant resentment towards Dex Fortescue. For all that he seemed like a friendly bloke (and even James admitted that he did) it seemed the seventh year had at best been thoughtless, and Lily didn’t deserve thoughtlessness. 

That is, no bird deserved thoughtlessness. Lily, as a bird, fell into that category.

 _Jesus fucking Christ_ , James thought. His internal monologue was mired in self-delusion. He would never have admitted it to Sirius, but he was beginning to begrudgingly accept that his best mate had a point concerning...well, not concerning any lingering feelings, but concerning how exactly he ought to recover from past feelings. Hadn’t he said an in-person alternative was best back in September when James had brought up Mel? 

“—unfair to expect him to guess what’s on your mind, and you’re very honest in all your relationships. I really don’t think there’s another way to fix it,” Germaine was saying.

“I just wish—” Lily began.

But James was spared from hearing what she _just wished_ , because Araminta Belby called, “We will try all together now, children…”

Sirius scoffed.

“Focus _on_ your destination — harness your determination, _will_ yourself to transcend yourself — and twist on the spot — now!”

Peter tripped, falling backwards in a comical flailing of limbs that took out Mary Macdonald behind him. She shrieked, “ _Peter_ , get _off_!” Dorcas was letting out a quiet string of modified profanity — “hell crud socks twigs _mother_...flower” — which earned what sounded like a chuckle from a passing McGonagall. “I think I’m missing some hair,” Germaine said, “can you Splinch hair?” James didn’t think Sirius had even tried; he was doubled-over laughing at Gaurav Singh in front of him, who’d hopped into his hoop and was trying to pass it off as a success. 

Araminta Belby waved her arms. “Once more, children…” 

“—five feet of space around you _if_ you please—” 

Lily waited patiently for the students around her to move, then grabbed Germaine by the elbow. 

“Stand next to me, will you?” she said under her breath.

Germaine shook her off. “All right, all right, you don’t have to claw me… What’s so important that you’re not paying close attention to the instructor?”

She didn’t fancy failing a course that she’d paid for, especially given that it was the easiest form of transportation open to her — flying was far too unsteady, and Flooing was out of the question for now, at least. But for once there were more important things than learning.

“I can’t keep this inside me anymore,” Lily whispered. “I’m — it’s stupid, but—” Then, all in a rush, “Dex and I had sex and he’s been oddly distant and I think I’m bad at it and now things are all wrong but I don’t know what to do.”

To her credit, Germaine kept any shock she felt perfectly hidden.

“Oh, so that’s what it was,” she said, poking a toe at the hoop that had appeared before her. “How come you’re telling me, and not Mary?” This was born not of any insecurity or resentment. All four girls knew that Mary was the sexpert among them — although, the bar was low, considering she was the only one with any experience.

 _Not anymore_ , Lily reminded herself. But it wasn’t as though her experience counted for anything. All it had done was drive off her boyfriend, clearly.

“Well, I know you’d listen. And I spoke to her about it last term, and she was lovely, but—” She could feel herself going red. “Oh, I’m embarrassed, and I don’t want her to think I’m a fool.”

Germaine sighed patiently. “She wouldn’t. But all right, you’ve told me, and I’m here to advise you. Are you positive it was the sex?”

Seeing as how she hadn’t talked to him about it, Lily couldn’t be positive. She frowned as she mulled this over, fixing her gaze on the dark hair of the boy in front of her. 

“I think so. If only because he’s pretending like it didn’t happen!”

“ _You’re_ pretending it didn’t happen.”

She hated it when her friends were right.

“I’m only pretending it didn’t happen because _he_ is.”

“Do you want me to be blunt, Lily?”

Germaine was looking at her with a soft sort of sympathy.

“Yes?” said Lily, uncertain.

“Well, he’s been distracted, distant, and downright _daft_ — three Ds plus a bonus — and I honestly thought he might be...cheating on you.” Once the words were out, she hurried to soothe whatever sting they might have caused. “Not that he _would_ — you know I love you, and no one should cheat on you, ever ever ever, or I’d tear them limb from limb. But...those were the signs, to me.”

Truth be told, this really had not occurred to Lily at all. She supposed Germaine had a point, but she couldn’t see it. And she didn’t think that was because she didn’t _want_ to see it — although, of course she didn’t, it was such a distressing thing to consider…

“No, he wouldn’t,” said Lily. “I really don’t think he would. Even if he doesn’t like me as much anymore, or — or something like that, he’s not a bad person.”

“I don’t think everyone who cheats is a villain.”

“You know what I mean.”

Germaine sighed. “All right, I do know what you mean. I hate to give you the same advice, but you do have to talk to him.”

Lily knew this was coming. It was the advice she would have given in her friend’s place. But childishly, she didn’t want to consider it. Talking to him about _big_ things felt so impossible, because every time she sat down with him to do it, she managed to tell herself she’d imagined the issues. Besides, why ruin the time they spent together with her worries?

It wasn’t a sustainable strategy. Vacillation was a weak character trait, she reminded herself. She knew she ought to make a choice and stick to it.

“But I’ve left it a whole month. It’ll seem like I’ve been stewing,” she protested nevertheless. 

“You _have_ been stewing,” Germaine pointed out.

“Well, I don’t want him to know I’ve been stewing!” She knew how petulant she sounded — and yet!

Germaine was shaking her head. “ _Lily_.”

What on earth would that conversation even look like? She wished fervently that she had Mary’s candour or Doe’s tact or Germaine’s blunt honesty. She wished she had James Potter’s high shame threshold.

“What if I talk to him and — and it turns out I really am bad in bed?” she whispered.

Someone coughed, and both girls jumped. They’d forgotten to concentrate on their hoops entirely. They returned to the task at hand — or, at least, they pretended to return to the task at hand. Lily stared at the stone encircled by her hoop with immense focus. If only she knew how to communicate telepathically, and could beam her thoughts and worries directly into Dex’s brain… Oh, hadn’t she wanted things to be _honest_? Where, along the way, had she wandered off the simple path?

“What’s the second D?” the boy in front of her was asking Araminta Belby. Lily realised it was James — how distracted had she been, if she hadn’t even recognised him? 

“Determination,” Belby replied with a sniff.

She didn’t think James would have any trouble with that. But she, Lily, did… So much for being a bold, daring Gryffindor. So much for honesty, and simplicity, and goodness. Belatedly she heard Germaine still speaking to her.

“You’re very honest in all your relationships,” her friend was saying. “I really don’t think there’s another way to fix it.”

But was she honest? She had gone weeks without telling her friends about Dex. She was currently not telling Dex himself her anxieties. She wanted to be able to solve her problems herself. If she managed that then she wouldn’t have to tell anyone anything at all — the issues would all be moot.

She opened her mouth to vocalise this. “I just wish—”

“We will try all together now, children!” Araminta Belby said.

Lily’s stomach swooped. She hadn’t tried to get into her hoop at all. Now she was behind on Apparition, of all things. Luckily, when Belby counted them down, not a single person around her managed the feat. She felt guilty for her relief, but only a little.

The sixth years trickled out of the Great Hall after a relatively uneventful lesson. Germaine had expected to be underwhelmed by the whole job of Apparition, having been ferried around Side-Along by her sister for several years now. But it was even worse than she’d thought. All that tosh about envisioning yourself in your destination and letting yourself be transported… It reminded her distinctly of Professor Lawrence’s Divination classes, which she’d been only too happy to drop after performing abysmally in her O.W.L. The poor grade had been a relief.

But thinking of Lawrence reminded Germaine of her absurd prophecy and the moved Quidditch matches, which in turn reminded her of Emmeline Vance. Hadn’t Emmeline been the one to take Lawrence’s vision to Flitwick? How out of character that seemed. Germaine wouldn’t have pegged her for a N.E.W.T.-level Divination student. But then again, she supposed she’d never really known the other witch at all. What did a few flying sessions do? Well, they made _her_ the idiot twit who’d fancy someone she barely knew…

Perhaps thoughts could conjure people. Emmeline was suddenly beside her, walking perfectly in step with her.

“I hope someone will Apparate eventually at these things,” she said.

It would be easy to slide into casual conversation as if they’d not argued on the Hogwarts Express at all. Germaine felt almost annoyed that Emmeline was granting her this clemency.

“That girl Splinching herself wasn’t entertainment enough?” Germaine replied nastily.

Emmeline’s expression grew closed-off and hard. “Poking fun at Lottie now of all times is really unfair.”

Germaine said nothing. She had no idea who the girl who’d Splinched herself was, nor why laughing at her was in poor taste. But she wanted to keep Emmeline at arm’s length. Preferably further than that.

“You’re properly angry at me. You haven’t come to the pitch since we got back in January,” Emmeline went on.

“I’m not angry at you,” said Germaine, unconvincing even to her own ears.

“And you’re not going to tell me what I did, I suppose.”

She stayed silent. There was no way she _could_ explain, after all.

“All right,” Emmeline sighed. “Worth a try, anyway.” She hoisted her bag higher on her shoulder and made as if to walk away.

“Wait!”

The word slipped out before Germaine could stop it. Emmeline stopped, eyebrows raised. A curl had come loose from her French plait; she tucked it behind one ear. Germaine followed the gesture with her gaze before staring at the flagstone floor instead.

“I’m sorry. Things have been — things were strange at home, with my parents, and I suppose I was in a bad mood on the train.”

Emmeline nodded slowly. “It’s all right.”

Germaine thought she’d overexplained, and the other girl would be put off by it after all. Or maybe she’d underexplained — what a vague sort of reason she’d given. But Emmeline offered her a small smile.

“Do you want to practice this afternoon?”

The question brought an answering grin to her face. “In the snow?”

“You never know what conditions you’ll face in a game, after all. Besides, I’d like to hear what you thought about the match against Slytherin.” Emmeline grimaced as she mentioned the loss.

“Oh.” Germaine hadn’t watched it after all, but she couldn’t say that — not when she knew Emmeline was the reason she’d stayed away. “Er, this afternoon, then.” She would just have to find Percy Egwu and beg for his notes.

As Emmeline disappeared around the corner, another shadow appeared behind her.

“Nice to see you’ve patched things up,” said James.

Germaine half-turned towards him, prepared for another argument. “Nice? Is that the word you’d use to describe it?”

He did not take this bait, tantalising though it was. 

“Just — be careful.”

She let out a long-suffering sigh. “So I don’t reveal all our Quidditch secrets. I know, I know. For the millionth time—”

James was frowning. “That isn’t what I meant. Be careful or you’ll get hurt.”

Germaine blinked at him. Sure, they were friendly as teammates were — friends, even — but she didn’t think she’d ever heard James express concern for _her_ , properly, in a matter unrelated to Quidditch. It was rather nice of him. She was so surprised that she could not come up with a clever retort, or anything very reassuring.

“I will,” Germaine said finally. 

James looked away, jaw clenched; he seemed to be deliberating whether or not to say something more. But in the end he only nodded and waved at her as he sauntered away.

* * *

_ii. Puzzle Pieces_

Snow persisted at Hogwarts the next weekend. Already the term seemed to have lasted an eternity — or maybe that was just to Doe, sitting in the Gryffindor stands under an Impervius Charm. On one side of her, Mary kept flicking gathering snowflakes from her shoulder; the charm had evidently not covered her well enough. On her other side, Lily stifled a yawn. It was early evening, but the match showed no sign of letting up. McGonagall had already illuminated the pitch with great white orbs so the game could continue.

“Potter fumbles right by the goalposts,” Michael Meadowes said, a sigh audible in his voice. “Hufflepuff’s Callahan with the Quaffle now — if you’re too bored to keep score, we are _still_ at ninety-seventy to Hufflepuff, and the Gryffindor captain is _still_ goalless.”

Even the booing from the Gryffindors in defence of their captain was subdued.

“Germaine needs to catch the bloody Snitch already,” Mary said, bouncing her knee impatiently.

Through the snowfall, Doe could see a vague shape that must have been Germaine arguing with a vague shape that must have been James.

“I think that’s what Potter’s saying to her right now,” she said.

“Well, he could stand to score a few goals himself.”

“I think he knows.”

All three girls sighed. Doe felt nervous enough to bounce her own knee. She couldn’t help but think of what had happened on the night of the last Quidditch match. What if whoever had hurt Gerard McIlhenny struck again? And tomorrow would be the first Hogsmeade visit since the murders in late December. Dorcas didn’t want to consider how the village might have changed. Would it be worse to see it swarming with Aurors and Magical Law Enforcement officers? Or would it be the same idyllic village, a vision that forced her to imagine the Dark Mark above it? 

That morning’s _Prophet_ had contained news of a break in the case: a relief, probably, to the ever-anxious Aurors at Hogwarts. The victims — Hogsmeade residents, the one an assistant at the Magic Neep, the other a part-timer at Dervish and Banges — had apparently been exposed to some old Dark magic, a compulsion spell, but that had not been what’d killed them. No, they’d been hit with the good old Killing Curse. 

Doe realised she was drumming her fingers on her knees. At once she stood.

“I think I’m going to go back to the castle. I feel a cold coming on.”

Lily half-rose. “Oh, dear, do you want me to come with you? I can make you some tea—”

She very nearly said yes — but then she remembered Gerard McIlhenny, and how Lily and Mary were safer in big crowds, and if _they_ didn’t think they needed to be careful she bloody well did.

“Don’t worry, I can manage,” Doe said, gently but firmly pushing Lily back into her seat. “Just don’t tell Germaine I left.”

You see, Dorcas Walker was sweet and generous and perhaps too forgiving for her own good. But she was a problem-solver, what her mother jokingly called a _puzzle-outer_. She picked and picked and picked at her friends’ worries, her own, the world’s. She was an idealist, but she was the sort of idealist with the drive to make the world an ideal one. 

So the problem with her problems, at present, was they could not be picked at. She was one girl. She could not solve the murders of Grace Hopkins, the Muggle-born Dervish and Banges assistant, and Lewis Ross, who bagged groceries at the Magic Neep. She could not dismantle blood purity. But _Merlin_ , she would try. She would write letters and argue with radio show hosts, and she would protect her family and friends. She would ask questions. She would be kind.

When Dorcas Walker entered the Gryffindor common room and saw Sirius Black pacing the carpet, and raking a hand through his hair, she did both.

“Oh, I thought you’d be at the match,” Doe said. Then, taking him in properly, she added, “Are you all right, Sirius?”

He had a piece of parchment clutched in his hands. At the sound of her voice he started, shoving it into a pocket.

“Fine,” he said roughly.

She thought he was very clearly _not_ fine, but wasn’t sure how to phrase this in a sensitive manner. Some of her scepticism must have shown on her face, because Sirius sighed. 

“Just need to ask Regulus some questions about what happened last week.”

Doe frowned ever so slightly. “Questions — about McIlhenny?” she guessed. 

He seemed unwilling to confirm anything, which only made her more certain of her guess. 

“I thought they caught the girl who did it and suspended her. A fourth year or something?”

“Well, she couldn’t have done it on her own.”

“And you think your brother knows who helped?”

Sirius looked away. “I think he — knows the spell they used.”

Dorcas considered what little she knew of Regulus Black. He had always felt very peripheral to her Hogwarts experience — he played Quidditch against Germaine once a year, and he was Sirius’s brother. But until the events of that November, when Regulus had shouted at his brother in the Great Hall, Doe had barely given him a second thought. He seemed quiet, thoughtful where some of his fellow Slytherins were brash and violent. 

Of course, that Severus Snape was quiet too. 

“I’ll come with you,” she said. 

He scowled. “It’s none of your business.”

This standoffishness didn’t put her off much. 

“If he’s hurting Muggleborns, it’s everyone’s business,” said Doe crisply. “Besides, you look as though your strategy is to hex him into confessing. Maybe he’ll be more forthright if it isn’t just you.”

Sirius snorted. “That’s likely.” But he seemed to relax. “Fine. They’re in the library — he and Marcus Rowle.”

They walked there in silence, ducking past Pince (“She hates me,” Sirius said, “she can’t see us going in.”) and wandering through desks. On any Saturday afternoon the library would have been empty, snow or not, but it was obvious that several others had left the Quidditch match too for boredom. Guilty Gryffindors in red-and-gold scarves avoided catching Doe and Sirius’s notice. 

“Christ, if this many people ditched the game for the _library_ it must be really bad,” he said. 

Doe was surprised. “Did you not go at all?”

He shook his head. “I was — waiting for Regulus to come back to the castle.” A flash of bitter longing crossed his face. Privately, she thought he might also have simply missed being on the team today, and had stayed away to avoid thinking about his dismissal from it. 

“There,” Sirius said, pointing at the two fifth years bent over a textbook. 

Regulus looked up at their approach, eyes narrowed. His handsome face was eerily reminiscent of his brother’s; the two regarded each other with cold distaste. 

“You only speak to me when you need something from me,” said Regulus. “So what is it?”

“Don’t sit down,” added Rowle, scowling. 

In response Sirius dragged over two chairs and sat. Doe repressed a sigh and took the seat beside him. 

“Tell me you two gits had nothing to do with the Hufflepuff who got attacked,” Sirius said. 

Rowle rolled his eyes. “It was Oliv—”

“Shut up, Rowle.” Sirius was staring right at Regulus. “It wasn’t that cute little curse they taught you, was it? _Sectumsempra_?”

Regulus stilled. Doe wasn’t sure if he looked guilty, exactly, but he was wary all of a sudden. She wanted to pull Sirius aside and ask what curse he was talking about.

“I wouldn’t know,” said Regulus stiffly. And then— “Is that really what happened? To McIlhenny?”

“Maybe. Is that what your pals say happened? Mulciber and Avery and Greengrass and the lot of them?”

“Sirius—” Doe began.

But something in his tone, or perhaps the invocation of the other Slytherins, shuttered Regulus away entirely. He sniffed, turning back to the book he’d been reading.

“You’ve got enough theories that it doesn’t sound like you need my help. Besides, we’d just won Quidditch. I was in the bloody common room, as were Mulciber and Avery, and Rowle too. The armour gallery is, what, five floors up? It’s a miracle Nott even got as far as she did.”

Dorcas tempered her voice and said, “You sound like you’ve given it some thought. How it happened, I mean.” She meant to sound encouraging, friendly, even — like she believed he was as concerned as the two of them.

Regulus seemed to take this as an accusation. “It’s a good thing I have. Apparently nosy Gryffindors are convinced I have to prove my innocence.” He gave her a cold once-over. “Who are you, again?”

She drew back, sensing where this was going both by the look on his face and Sirius’s sharp inhale.

“Dorcas. _Walker_ ,” she replied, emphasising her perfectly mundane surname. “Before you ask, no, you don’t know any Walkers. My parents are Muggle-born.”

His gaze darted to Sirius, then fell back upon his book. “Yeah. _Thought_ so. If we’re done here, I have homework that needs doing.”

Sirius opened his mouth to say something else — something probably incendiary — but Doe grabbed his wrist. With a meaningful look, she hauled him out of his chair and towards the library doors.

“He’s not going to tell you anything,” she said under her breath, “if he even knows something worth telling.”

“He knows something,” Sirius insisted, but did not resist. Doe released him once they were out in the corridor. By unspoken agreement they started back to Gryffindor Tower.

Presently, she said, “Do you know what curse they hit McIlhenny with?”

“I’ve got a guess.”

Silence. She arched an eyebrow at him. “How, exactly?”

He sighed. “Moony was — ill this week, and he was in the Hospital Wing the same time as McIlhenny. He said he didn’t remember much, but there was...lots of blood. And Pomfrey said something about sealing the wound… The spell I’m thinking of could do that, I reckon.”

“ _Sectumsempra_?” Doe said hesitantly. “I’ve never heard of that.”

“Don’t try it,” he said quickly.

She put her hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I wouldn’t have tried a random curse your brother mentioned, Sirius.”

His expression grew stormy; he gave no reply. Belatedly she wondered if she shouldn’t have called Regulus his brother.

“You know… Everyone knows what your family are like. I mean, the entire Great Hall found out you were disowned at breakfast.”

“ _Do_ they,” Sirius all but snarled, striding ahead of her. “Is that what the gossip’s about these days? My dear old mum?”

Realising she’d misstepped again, Doe shook her head. “That’s not — let me finish. I’m saying, everyone knows what your family are like, but we don’t judge _you_ for it. You’re not them. And that’s pretty obvious to — well, everyone with an ounce of sense.”

He slowed ever so slightly, but the angry set to his shoulders remained.

“I know you lot hexed Mulciber and Avery because of Mary,” Doe added quietly. “None of you is best mates with her, but you did it _for_ her. And it might not be the way I’d have handled things, but — it’s obvious which side you’re on.”

She could have said more, could have pointed out his need to _prove_ what side he was on and the methods by which he did it would get him in deep trouble with their teachers. But she didn’t think Sirius needed that much coddling. And in any case, it was the old wizarding families’ prerogative, showing that they were forward-thinking and inclusive. Silence was tacit approval. She couldn’t fault him for being vocal.

Their silence seemed more comfortable after that; Sirius slowed to let her catch up once more. The Fat Lady’s corridor was full of whooping Gryffindors, damp from the snow and streaming into the common room.

“Germaine must have caught the Snitch after all,” Dorcas said, brightening. 

“ _Ardently_ ,” Sirius said to the Fat Lady, who had apparently been so charmed by the Valentine’s Day mood that she’d become quite the romantic.

The noise only grew louder when they’d stepped through the portrait hole. “Thank _God_ ,” Isobel Park was saying to all who would listen, Butterbeer in hand. “Thank _God_ and Germaine King, I thought we’d be there all bloody night—”

Germaine swooped down upon Doe and Sirius, her grin wide. “Where were you?”

“Sorry, I came back to the castle because I felt a bit ill,” said Doe easily, recalling the fib she’d told Lily and Mary. 

“Well, if anyone tells you about my heroics, don’t contradict them.” Leaning closer, she whispered, “I fell asleep on my broom and the Snitch bumped into me. Potter can never know.”

As if the mention of James had called her attention to Sirius’s presence, Germaine rounded on him next. “What are you doing here? Have you already been to the Hospital Wing, then?”

“Hospital Wing?” Sirius said, frowning.

Germaine clicked her tongue. “Christ, I thought you four were telepathically connected or something. Potter’s in there. It’s nothing too bad!” she added. “Just a broken wrist. I suppose Chris Townes throws harder than expected.” She frowned a little. “He had a bad day, James did. He could probably use some cheering up.”

Sirius nodded. “Right, I’ll head. But, er, Dorcas, thanks for the—” He stopped, glancing at Germaine. “Herbology homework.”

She smiled. “Those Venomous Tentacula can be really frustrating.”

Once Sirius had departed, Germaine shot Doe a curious look. “What was that?”

Doe laughed. “Seriously, Germaine. You sound like Mary. We talked about Herbology.” Throwing an arm around her friend’s shoulders, she pulled her deeper into the crowd. “Come on, I want to hear what elaborate story you’re going to tell instead of how you really caught the Snitch.”

* * *

_iii. Love’s Such An Old-Fashioned Word_

Everyone had bad games.

This was something James had very often said to his teammates. He made a mental note to say it less, because it turned out it was bloody infuriating to hear.

When he returned to the common room, wrist thoroughly bandaged (“I don’t trust you to be careful with it if it’s not in a cast,” Pomfrey had said sternly), the party was in full swing. To his mind the celebration had an air of immense relief to it, a nervous sort of thank-fuck-we-snatched-victory-from-the-jaws-of-defeat attitude. Well, since that was a fairly accurate description of what had happened, James couldn’t blame them. 

He couldn’t say why the game had gone so poorly. Maybe it had been the awful visibility, which even well-placed Impervius Charms couldn’t help with. Sometimes you had _it_ — chemistry, energy, whatever name you fancied — and sometimes you didn’t. The Chasers had been horribly out of sync, and James hadn’t been able to steady them. _Everyone had bad games_ , but James Potter didn’t think he was allowed to.

You see, James Potter was not ambitious. Of his housemates, he was one of the least likely to have been Sorted into Slytherin instead — leaving aside the fact that he had spent the eleven-and-change years of his life prior to the first of September, 1971, knowing that Gryffindor was the house for him. Unlike Dorcas Walker, he did not plan on changing the world. Perhaps this was born of a comfortable childhood. Fleamont Potter had achieved so his son did not have to, and the Potters were more interested in their mischievous son’s personal growth than his professional success.

 _Whatever James decides to do_ , Fleamont could often be heard telling his friends, _I’m sure he’ll enjoy it_. Not _I’m sure he’ll be good at it_ , because that was implicit — James would never _do_ something he wasn’t good at and didn’t enjoy. He had his fair share of principles, a pronounced dislike of the Dark Arts being one of them, but he did not already envision a goal those principles would help him get to. He lived his life with the assumption that the goal would come to him.

James Potter was easygoing, but he was restless and energetic all the same, and in the manner of children who’d grown up just _good_ at things without having to try, he’d come to expect things of himself. It was a nasty business, holding yourself to _standards_. He hated it. And he’d always held himself to a high standard when it came to certain things. Quidditch. Mischief-making. Loyalty. Regrettably on the list, Transfiguration and Charms class, if only to piss off all the people who tried twice as hard. 

This frustrating contradiction was at the forefront of his mind as he roamed the party, Butterbeer in hand. (Well, maybe not the _forefront_. We will allow for a certain teenage lack of self-awareness.) James, like Dorcas earlier that day, was looking for the cause of a problem. Trying to diagnose an illness by its symptoms. Perhaps he had been distracted. He’d always managed to focus for Quidditch, but the McIlhenny incident and nights of staring at the (empty) seventh floor corridor on the Marauder’s Map might have taken up some of that focus of late. He considered the former now. If only someone bloody listened to him about Olivia Nott — accomplices or no, he was certain she’d had nothing to do with it, and the answer lay somehow with Snape… If Snape wouldn’t talk maybe Greengrass would… 

As soon as this idea occurred to him the gauntlet that was the Gryffindor common room presented him with the most daunting challenge of all. There was Lily, feet tucked underneath her in an armchair, all alone save for the bottle in her hand. She was in a secluded little corner, away from the post-Quidditch chatter.

James could simply turn around and walk away. He knew this, intellectually. He had just steeled himself to do it when she noticed him and waved him over.

“How’s your wrist?” she asked, eyeing it.

He glanced at it as if he hadn’t noticed he’d hurt it at all. “Oh, perfect form. Go on, give it a punch.” He dropped into the seat next to her and held out his arm.

Lily gave him a look that was part horror, part outrage. “I’m not going to punch the wrist you just broke.”

“You think Pomfrey would let me leave without fixing it first? Come off it, Evans.”

She was still frowning, but she gave his bandage a light two-fingered tap. Then she withdrew her hand as if afraid his skin would burn her. He rolled his eyes.

“I think about being a Healer, sometimes,” Lily said. She reached out once more and took his wrist between her index finger and her thumb. James pretended not to be affected by this.

“You’re brilliant at Potions,” he offered. Immediately he wished he’d given some other form of encouragement. Any old tosser could have told her that. Hell, she _knew_ that already.

But she smiled faintly. “Nice of you to say so. I don’t know that I have...the temperament.”

James gave her an incredulous look. “Why would you say that?”

“Sometimes I feel so in my own head. So — consumed by my own worries, you know? Even unselfish worries. But it’s not very kind or observant, which I think a good Healer should be.”

“That’s rubbish,” he said without thinking.

She drew back slightly, dropping his hand, but there was still some dry humour in her gaze. “Please tell me you plan on following that up with something.”

“I mean—” James ran a hand through his hair, searching for the right words. “Being caught up in — the _shit_ politics of our moment doesn’t make you unkind. What the fuck? Why would you think that?”

“Why do you assume it’s politics?”

Belatedly he remembered the conversation he’d overheard, and he felt trapped. He knew, but she did not know he knew. She would probably be mortified if she knew he knew. 

“Just a guess,” he mumbled. A pause. “You know I think you want to help people. I’ve said as much. And — you’re good at it. But you don’t need me to tell you that either.”

She looked up at him and he held her gaze. Her eyes were so very green.

“Then what do I need you to tell me?” she said. There was no humour in her voice, but there was no belligerence there either. Just open curiosity.

James thought of a hundred wrong answers. “You’re drinking Firewhisky,” he said instead.

Lily laughed, covering her mouth. “You don’t say.” She held up the bottle in a toast of sorts. “I _am_ of age now. I thought I’d give it a try.”

He squinted at the bottle. She was only a few sips in. This was reassuring — she hadn’t started this conversation out of some odd drunken instinct. Or...maybe that made it worse.

“And you’re not wearing the watch your mum gave you,” James went on.

She was rubbing at the worn green leather band of her old wristwatch. She looked down at her hands and smiled.

“Observant. Maybe you ought to be the Healer.”

He let out a snort. “Didn’t you say kind and observant?”

She frowned. “I think you’re kind. You can be, I mean. When you try.”

He grinned. “Ah, but those qualifiers.”

“You don’t need me to tell you you’re _kind_ , James.” Lily rolled her eyes.

When he’d sat down, he’d had no idea where the conversation would lead. But maybe he’d always known he would end up here, beside this girl, horribly distracted by how she looked when she said his name.

But James Potter was rather a good actor.

“Then what do I need you to tell me?”

“I’m not wearing the watch my mum gave me,” she said with a sigh, “because it’s expensive and it’s going to get damaged.”

He grew incredulous. “Right, _that's_ proper rubbish. Are you or are you not a witch? You can fix whatever you think you’ll do to it.”

She straightened, getting that look on her face that told him she was gearing up for an argument. “Not everything can be fixed by magic. Some part of it has to end up — changed. It’s all molecular, isn’t it? There can’t be no consequence to spells… Magic _has_ to leave a trace of some sort.”

In response James held up his bandaged wrist, settling back into his chair. 

Lily scoffed. “That’s proof of nothing. You, by the way, are full of magic already. You cast it on others and you’ve had it cast on you, and you—” she started to laugh “—you do it to yourself when you _will yourself to move outside yourself_ or whatever it was, at Apparition lessons.”

He could not hold back his own laughter at her Araminta Belby impression. If only she knew to what degree his molecular structure had been altered by magic.

“But that’s why Healing is so...foreign to me, I suppose. Maybe because my family are Muggles and all I know is Muggle medicine.” She was shaking her head forcefully. “Some things _can’t_ be fixed. Isn’t that true?”

“Maybe,” James allowed. “There’s curses that can’t be undone easily.” He thought of Gerard McIlhenny. “There’s spells that are irreversible and diseases that haven’t been cured. Same as with Muggles, yeah?”

She nodded slowly. Then, as if they’d finally arrived at the heart of the matter, she said, “My dad died in a car accident.”

James blinked. Suddenly all his confident claims about how magic could fix everything seemed so foolish. “Evans, I—”

Her smile was wry. It was the real thing — or a very good fake one. 

“You don’t have to apologise. You didn’t know, of course, and you…” She blew out a breath. “He— It was four years ago today.”

He withheld his apology, and said instead, "Our second year, wasn't it? I remember that, sort of."

She nodded. "It was awfully bad weather, so he'd taken the car to the shops. Mum told him not to go, but...obviously, he did anyway." She looked at the carpet, then back up at him. "I'd written him that morning, asking for more chocolate. And he went to get it."

James cleared his throat. "You don't really think that you — caused it."

Lily shrugged. "Most days, no. Some days, a little."

He opened his mouth to apologise once more, but she seized his arm. “Really, _don’t_ say you’re sorry.”

So he didn’t. Instead he pointed with his free hand at his bandaged wrist, currently in her grip. “Ouch,” he said, deadpan.

“Oh, fiddlesticks.” She dropped his arm. “It really didn’t hurt?”

James laughed at the look on her face. “It didn’t. Honest.” 

“You’re awful.”

“I’m kind and observant.”

“ _Awful_.” She was laughing.

He hated to return to the heaviest point of their conversation, but… “Don’t your friends know? I mean, you’re not with them.”

Lily’s smile faded. “They know.”

“Does your boyfriend know?” (An idle question. James picked at a loose thread on the armrest cover of his chair.)

She bit her lip, avoided his gaze. “No. It’s a bit heavy, isn’t it? Point is, I just need to be distracted from it. Merlin knows I’ll spend all of tonight lying in bed thinking about him.”

“You were sitting here alone,” he said.

“And now I’m not.”

He did not want to consider what it meant, that she’d beckoned to him so that she might be a little less alone. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly and thought, with the manner of someone poking at a scab, of the Lake last year.

“James?” 

When he opened his eyes she was staring at him.

“Are you all right?”

“Very,” he managed. “I think — I might have been lying, about my wrist not hurting.”

As far as fibs went, it was not so bad. If James pretended hard enough he could claim a vague phantom pang in his right hand.

“Oh! James, you should’ve said—” She glanced around as if searching for a solution, then handed him her half-finished bottle of Firewhisky. He had his fingers curled around the bottle’s neck before he could think about it.

“I couldn’t,” he said drily.

“I’m giving it to you.”

“I’m not seventeen.”

She gave him a severe look. “Don’t be difficult.”

He grinned, relieved to have returned to safer conversational ground, and took a sip of the drink. “Difficult was always what I wanted to be when I grew up.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “What do you really want to be? When you grow up?”

James resisted the urge to poke fun at her choice of words. “I suppose I’ll find out. I’d want to give Quidditch a go, I think.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Professionally?”

“No, Evans, in the local village league.”

“Very funny.”

“I know I am.” He could see Mary across the room, coming their way. He was both relieved and regretful. This moment of solitude would be over soon. If only he could say something candid and thoughtful to cap it off. 

He was struck by the crazed impulse to tell her he had nothing else to do that night, and if she wanted to drink hot chocolate with someone he would be there… But this urge was in and of itself proof. He needed to find new plans tonight. He’d half-risen without realising it.

“Thanks, James. For the conversation,” Lily said, perhaps sensing too that something had passed.

He’d have to be stupid, or blind, or both, to misinterpret the rush of feeling the sight of her gave him. He could only pretend so long. He held the bottle of Firewhisky out to her. 

“I don’t break the law,” he said, just to make her laugh.

She did. 

Because he could not let things lie, he added, “You should wear the watch. You can’t live your whole life worrying about what you’ll break, yeah?”

Lily looked as though she was about to respond, but she only nodded. And Mary sat down on the sofa next to her chair. James took that to be his cue. He could still go find Thalia Greengrass, still do something that didn’t leave him thinking of her.

It was just shy of nine, but curfew was no obstacle. He headed up the staircase and grabbed the Cloak and the map. But before he could slip out of the common room, he was distracted by the sight of Germaine, having been accosted by third years, talking about the match. She met his gaze and smiled.

“It was all a strategy, obviously,” she told them. “Lull Hufflepuff into a false sense of security.”

He knew that no one older than thirteen would believe that for a second, but he appreciated her saying so all the same. Which meant James had another thing to do before he set off to find answers. Being _the bigger person_ and _righting your wrongs_ : two other things he considered a nasty business. James sighed to himself and beckoned Germaine towards him.

“Important Quidditch talk,” he said to the third years, who looked awed and vanished.

“It was fine, you know,” Germaine said before James could say anything. “There’s plenty of matches when Quentin scores only one goal.”

Those matches were ones in which he and Evan made up the difference, James thought, and Quentin still did his job by setting up goals. But that was neither here nor there.

“That’s not what I wanted to talk about. I wanted to apologise.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Whatever for?”

“The day I was a prat about Emmeline Vance. I don’t think I ever apologised.”

“You didn’t,” Germaine agreed.

James ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well. It was a bad day, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. But it’s all forgotten now.” 

He nodded. “She’s been loitering outside the portrait.”

Germaine frowned, glancing at the portrait hole as if she could see through it. “Is she? How do you know?”

James waved a hand. “Never mind how I know. Seeing as how she’s never been a big Gryffindor Quidditch fan, I’d say she’s here to speak with you. So if you want to head out, I’m leaving too.”

She considered this, and him, for a long moment. “Okay. Sure.”

Germaine didn’t think James would have lied to her about something so specific, but she was surprised anyway by the sight of Emmeline in the corridor, a few feet from the Fat Lady and eyeing the portrait nervously. James gave Germaine a meaningful look — or, at least, she thought he meant _some_ thing by it, since she couldn’t decipher it — and walked off, whistling something she vaguely recognised as “Twist and Shout.”

 _You know you look so good… You know you got me goin’ now, baby_ , Germaine’s traitorous brain thought. Emmeline’s hair was down, which was new. She straightened when she caught sight of Germaine, waving awkwardly.

“Congratulations. I was trying to get her—” thumb jerked in the Fat Lady’s direction “—to let me in, but I thought I’d have to break in by how well it was going.”

Was she nervous? Germaine didn’t think she’d heard Emmeline speak so quickly before.

“I’m honour-bound not to give out the password,” said Germaine. “But you’re welcome to follow me back in so long as you close your ears while I say it.”

She laughed, and Germaine beamed stupidly at the sound of it. “It’s all right, the corridor is quite nice too. I don’t wait around here much. The portraits are a funny bunch.”

Germaine handed her a bottle of Butterbeer and leaned against the wall beside her. “They’ve got great stories. That one over there, Alvina the lady-knight? She’s in love with the giant princess one floor down, and sometimes the satyrs in the next painting over get her in her cups and she won’t shut up about it.” Almost as soon as she’d said it Germaine wished she could take the words back. Her cheeks burned.

But Emmeline laughed again. “Why won’t she just go tell the princess?”

“From what I’ve heard? Honesty isn’t actually the problem. Alvina has to go on a very complicated quest to earn her favour.”

“Poor Alvina. You have to tell me when she talks about her quest — I want to hear it straight from her.”

“Ha, yeah. Sure,” Germaine said. Her mind was whirling. They hadn’t been the sort of friends who’d said hi in the corridors between classes. They were the sort of friends who just nodded at one another. Was she to believe they were now suddenly on tell-me-when-the-portrait-is-drunk terms?

She stewed in silence as Emmeline drank her Butterbeer. She had half a mind to say they ought to go inside the common room, if only so that it wouldn’t be so bloody _quiet_ , but Germaine didn’t know if Emmeline was the partying sort. She’d been at Evan’s, but not really in the thick of things… She hadn’t played Mary’s drinking game, and she’d gone into the kitchen with Chris Townes…

But Chris Townes felt very, very far away, that night in the corridor — irrelevant, dare she say. Germaine didn’t think she was that badly misreading the way Emmeline was standing, close enough to brush against her side every now and then. Besides, Chris was seeing Cecily, so there wasn’t anything there… 

“What you said earlier,” Emmeline said all of a sudden, “about your parents.”

Germaine’s heightened awareness of their touching elbows faded a little at this remark. “Yeah?”

Emmeline inhaled deeply; when she spoke, her words were measured but quiet. “My dad left in the summer. He only comes back every now and then when he needs to get something from the house. Amelia keeps trying to make me talk about it with her, but — there isn’t much to say.”

Germaine let out a long breath. “I know what you mean.” As annoyed as she’d been that her friends hadn’t realised something was wrong, she hadn’t really _wanted_ to discuss it either. Because there wasn’t much to say at all. Her parents had been in love, and they were no longer in love. 

She looked up at Emmeline. The other girl was taller than her, but not by much. Germaine could see the three little creases between her dark brows, the cloudy grey of her eyes. No, she didn’t know much about Emmeline Vance at all, but she thought she’d like to know more.

Emmeline was looking back at her now. Germaine was quite certain she was looking at her mouth specifically. _Oh. What?_ said her brain, most eloquently. Germaine had never been kissed, because when the girls she knew began their still-running obsession with boys she’d realised she was quite uninterested in boys on the whole. She hadn’t considered that this lack of interest might correspond with an interest in girls, not really. Or if she _had_ , it’d been matter of fact. There was no big realisation, no sun coming out from behind the clouds. She hadn’t had to interrogate it, not before Emmeline Vance.

But in that moment Germaine felt very much like Mary Macdonald claimed to feel. There was a nervous flutter in her stomach. Her heart was racing. She was worried suddenly that her palms were going to start sweating.

Before she could discreetly wipe them on her trousers, though, they were kissing. Emmeline’s fingers were in her hair, and Germaine’s hands were on Emmeline’s waist, and she couldn’t have said who had started it. She was so soft, too, for someone so aloof and untouchable. She tasted like Butterbeer.

And then suddenly they were four feet apart.

“What—” Germaine began.

Emmeline’s hand went up to her mouth. “I have to go. It’s nine — curfew—”

 _Oh, no_. Curfew seemed like a very tame excuse, given the horror in her expression. 

“Look, it’s okay — I mean, you don’t have to—” Didn’t mates snog all the time and regret it afterwards and just stay mates?

But Emmeline was quite literally _running_ for the stairs. That was not a good sign. At _all_.

“Wait!” Germaine shouted desperately, starting after her. But if she’d made a mistake, if Emmeline needed to be away, she couldn’t push things. 

They’d only just made up. And she might have spoiled things for good.

“I’m sorry,” she said to the empty corridor.

The Fat Lady sighed. “You should go inside before you’re caught breaking curfew, you know.”

Across the corridor, a woman in a suit of armour startled awake in her painting. “Oh, I will have to apologise so profusely to my lady when she sees how I have _faaaaaailed_ —”

“Shut up,” Germaine said to Alvina the knight, because being cross felt far easier than giving into the tears pricking at her eyes just then.

For no particular reason, James passed by the tapestry after leaving Germaine with Emmeline Vance. He stared at the blank wall, willing the cupboard to show itself. If he just solved the mystery of where it went then he could tell Lily and be done with it all. Then he thought he ought to stop being stupid and get a move on. He threw the Cloak around himself and fished out the map, but barely processed what he was looking at. Because some facts had made themselves apparent to him. 

They were: Lily Evans was being a distraction. This was not new — she had been distracting him for quite some time. Only, he’d convinced himself she’d stopped, but she hadn’t. Here she was, making him think about _secret rooms_ instead of Quidditch. 

The next fact was: she was being a distraction specifically because he was not over her. He hadn’t been over her when he’d argued with her about the pie prank, or when she’d given him hot chocolate, or when he’d tried to rescue her at Slughorn’s party only to be rescued _by_ her. He hadn’t been over her when he’d seen her disappear down a hallway at Evan Wronecki’s house hand in hand with her boyfriend, and he hadn’t been over her at her birthday. He certainly hadn’t been over her when she’d been talking about said boyfriend and their troubles. He was full of shit, though he would never have admitted it to his mates.

The third fact was: he loved her, and he could do nothing about it. James Potter was restless and energetic, and _God_ , he hated feeling like his hands were tied. He noticed the name he was headed towards on the map, though he pretended not to. Before he rounded the corner, he took off the Cloak and bundled it under one arm, and stuffed the map into a pocket. By the time he came face to face with her, he had a crooked grin on her face and a hand running through his hair.

“I ought to give you detention for being out of bed.”

James gave her a knowing look. They both knew it was an empty threat.

“Not celebrating?” Marissa Beasley said, walking towards him. There was a smile playing at her lips, as though she was already prepared to laugh at what he would say in response.

“Seems stupid to celebrate when they won in spite of me, and not because of me.”

Marissa cocked her head. “Self-pity isn’t a very good look on you.”

That was a fair point. “No, it isn’t.”

“We can change that, if you’d like.”

She held out a hand. James did not ask if she was on patrol; nor did he say no. But he did not say yes either.

What he did say was, “Go with me to Hogsmeade tomorrow?”

At that she did laugh. “I didn’t know that’s what this was.”

James shrugged, smiling. “It is whatever we want it to be, Mar.”

She considered the question only for a moment. “Sure.” He took her hand. “To Ravenclaw Tower?”

“Why not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOUSEKEEPING FIRST! in my profile i have linked to a landing page i made on tumblr for this fic, which is more conducive to my rambling about upcoming updates. i am literally seven chapters ahead of you all right now LOL so i need somewhere to store my thoughts! feel free to come yell at me on tumblr about this fic @thequibblah. anyway, back to scheduled programming—
> 
> how are we feeling? do we hate me? 
> 
> honestly i've spent 4 chapters terrified it was obvious that james and marissa hooked up but i *think* i got away with it lol. and poor germaine — that's one kiss down, one more to go, and the fight has yet to come :) 
> 
> this chapter was written to "under pressure" but also to "slow and steady seduction" by anya marina, making it the first and only chapter i wrote to non-period-appropriate music. funny, because i listened to the same anya marina album the first time i tried (and spectacularly failed!) to write a long canon marauders era fic! what goes around, etc. etc.
> 
> anyway, i'm a bit nervous about this chapter overall, so please please leave a comment so that i dont talk myself into a spiral! next update will hopefully get some more jily hearts going...but be warned, for there is also some snape...
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	18. How the Dice Rolls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Snape and co. are given a secret mission by Alec Rosier's Death Eater brother. A Muggle-born Hufflepuff is cursed and left in a corridor with a pureblood propaganda message; a fourth year girl is caught fleeing the scene. James doesn't believe she's guilty. He hooked up with Head Girl Marissa Beasley at Evan's party, and seeks her out again upon realising his get-over-Lily quest is failing. Lily's relationship is on the rocks, because her boyfriend was insensitive post-sex. Doe and Sirius try to quiz Reg about the attack. Mary fancies hot-and-cold Doc Dearborn. Doe might have feelings for Michael Meadowes. Germaine kissed Emmeline Vance and it didn't go so well. 
> 
> NOW: Lily puts her foot down. Mary makes the same mistake twice. Another Muggle-born is attacked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter once again makes reference to but does not explicitly describe what Avery and Mulciber did to Mary, so there's some post-trauma vibes. There is also a very brief mention of biphobia. 
> 
> Kate Nash singlehandedly changed the course of this chapter, so shoutout to "Kiss That Grrrl" and "Pumpkin Soup." 
> 
> Also, shoutout to all of YOU who have made writing this fic so much fun. **fight_the_unthinkable** , **sparkschaser** , **Nina** , **sweet_like_choc** , **eysully** , **siyahlater** , **Moon Monkeys** , **keira901** , **shivani** , and everyone who's left kudos or comments, thank you thank you thank you.

_i. A Token of My Love_

“For Merlin’s sake,” Rosier said, “don’t _fuck_ it up.”

Mulciber and Avery rolled their eyes together; it would have been comical if Severus hadn’t already been on edge. It had been two whole weeks since McIlhenny. Rosier had been tense too at first, but the fortnight was enough to convince him they’d got away with it. Severus wished he could be so cavalier.

Even now he thought someone would read his mind… McGonagall, maybe, eyeing the lot of them as they waited in the Entrance Hall to board the carriages to Hogsmeade. 

What if she did know Legilimency by chance? Could she see, right then, how he, Severus, had Stunned the Hufflepuff, Rosier’s chosen target? How they had together Confunded Thalia Greengrass so she would not know what had happened? _Her brother may be one of ours,_ Rosier had said, _but we shouldn’t leave any loose ends. Not when she hasn’t committed herself to the cause_.

How gratifying to be part of that _we_ that excluded a Greengrass… He had made a commitment even Thalia, with her pure blood, had not. Rosier had Imperiused Nott, so Severus had yet to cross that line. But the older boy had decided to use _his_ spell on McIlhenny. That was as close as it would get to approval. It had turned his stomach at first to watch, but Severus had made himself look — to look away was to show weakness.

As much as Severus feared being caught, he feared something else more. Mulciber and Avery were supposed to pick a target today, when most older students would trudge through the snow to Hogsmeade. Most of the Aurors were going with them, since the still-at-large Hogsmeade killer posed more of a risk, apparently, than whoever was in the castle. (A surge of disdain, at this. They didn’t even _know_ , the idiots.)

The easy thing to do — the smart thing to do — would be to choose someone small and random, someone easy to overpower. They did not have the patience or commitment to plan a confusing attack as Rosier and Severus had done. No, it was best if they perplexed the authorities further by making the incidents seem utterly unlike each other.

But Mulciber and Avery were wild cards, and Selwyn would do whatever they decided. And Severus did not think they were pleased with him of late — jealous, maybe, of the fact that Rosier had chosen him as a partner? They might try to get back at him.

And at present, Lily Evans was hovering by the staircase and watching carriages come and go. She was dressed for a day out, bundled up in a bright Gryffindor-red scarf, but there was obvious worry in her expression. Severus was close enough to hear her wonder aloud to her friends if she should even go. He felt vaguely ill.

He thought Lily’s Hufflepuff boyfriend was quite worthless — not a real concern, however, because she obviously did not care for him that much — but he wished now that the boy would appear to whisk her away. 

Lily could not stay in the castle. She could not.

But if he tried to warn her, Mulciber and Avery would realise he still cared for her. That made her a bigger target to them. No, Severus would simply have to wait and hope… Whatever force of luck that had saved him from being caught two weeks ago would need to prevail again. He could not bear to imagine a different course of events.

“Maybe I shouldn’t go at all,” Lily said, shifting from one foot to the other and fiddling with the end of her scarf. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Germaine said immediately. “Mary’s already not going because of a boy. Why on earth do you want to let him spoil your day?”

“He hasn’t spoiled it,” Lily felt compelled to say. 

Dex had spent another study date with her since the first Apparition lesson, and he’d given her a huge batch of Galleon biscuits and a pretty little necklace. This sort of attention had mollified her to the point that she’d thought she didn’t _have_ to discuss her concerns with him after all — but then he hadn’t asked her to Hogsmeade, and she’d been left wondering what on earth to think. Maybe he _was_ really cheating on her. 

“He hasn’t spoiled it and he won’t, because you won’t let him,” Doe said. "You love days like this."

That was true. Lily loved the snow, and it had piled up beautifully over the week. It would be nice to spend time with her friends, to ignore her silly anxieties for a little while longer… But then, out of nowhere, someone gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Ready to go?” Dex said, his wide smile firmly in place.

Lily’s instinct was to frown; she managed to suppress it. The butterflies that had led her to fall for him so spectacularly in the first place — they seemed to have been replaced by angry little moths. They swarmed around her stomach in confusion.

But what came out of her mouth was “Oh! Oh — all right.” 

He did not seem to notice the frostiness in her voice. Doe gave her a thumbs up; Germaine mouthed _talk to him!_ Lily gulped. But oh, Germaine was right. She couldn’t ignore this feeling any longer.

“You’re quiet today,” Doe observed as she and Germaine strolled down the Hogsmeade High Street.

Snow had blanketed everything, muffling the conversation of students around them. The village took on quite a festive air, even though it was already February — or, at least, it would have if not for the vague aura of fear that seemed to hold its residents. Oh, the students were cheerful enough. Doe had been nervous for weeks but even she had to admit it was difficult to hold on to that apprehension now that the horrible _Prophet_ headline from Christmas seemed so far away.

Some shops were decked out for Valentine’s Day anyway. But others were sad, almost. The Magic Neep, the greengrocers, had a help wanted sign in the window beside a large moving photograph of Lewis Ross, the man who’d been murdered. Worse still was Dervish and Banges, which bore a large CLOSED sign on its door. As the two girls passed by its windows, Doe could make out the distinct pale blonde head of Patrick Podmore inside. 

“Just thinking,” Germaine mumbled. “I wonder how many Aurors stayed in the castle.”

“I think Edgar Bones did, and Marlene McKinnon, but all of the others I saw supervising the carriages.” Doe was about to say that she wished Mary had not stayed; she bit back her words. She hated to seem a nag.

It was a good thing too, because her friend had an entirely different topic of conversation on her mind.

“I’m in — a fight, I think, with Emmeline Vance.”

“Amelia Bones’s friend?” Dorcas frowned. “I didn’t realise you knew her.”

Germaine was looking determinedly at the snow-covered ground. “I’d been flying with her.”

“Oh,” said Doe, though her frown remained. “What do you mean, you _think_ you’re in a fight with her?”

“I kissed her,” Germaine admitted. “Or she kissed me — I dunno, there was kissing.”

“ _Oh_.”

“And then she ran away.”

Dorcas struggled to keep a blank face. “Oh, _dear_.”

“Yeah, _oh, dear_ is bloody right.” Germaine’s expression twisted into misery.

Doe wrapped an arm around her. “Have you tried speaking to—”

“I don’t think she wants to speak to me.”

“Germaine, goodness, when did this happen?”

“Only last night. So my embarrassment is fresh as daisies.” Germaine let out a breath. “I don’t want to dwell on it. Can we just — do something fun?”

Doe looked around the morose shopfronts. The boring, easy thing to do would be to visit Zonko’s, but she didn’t think Germaine would be thrilled to be surrounded by overenthusiastic thirteen-year-olds. 

“Let’s go into Gladrags, and try on the most awful robes we can find,” Doe suggested.

Germaine pulled a face. “Shopping?”

“Does your shopping process entail trying on _awful robes_?”

“When my sister’s involved, yeah.”

“There’s some hilariously bad stuff in there.”

A smile had finally taken shape on Germaine’s lips. “Okay. Let’s do it, then.”

They were walking in absolute silence. Lily was not a petty person — or so she told herself. But she was still thinking, _he has to ask first. We’re both obviously in moods, but_ he _can ask first!_ What was it she’d said to James about being kind and observant, though?

She opened her mouth, only for Dex to beat her to it.

“You’re wearing the necklace,” he said, his lips very nearly twitching into a smile.

She looked down at the pendant nestled in her scarf. It was a little green teardrop on a gold chain. When she’d shown her friends, Mary had held it up to her face clinically and told her it wasn’t quite a match for her eyes. But that was such an unkind thought.

“Yes, I am. It’s pretty,” she said, which was a very bland thing to say even if you meant it.

Dex turned back to the shops. Leana Hartwick, the Hogsmeade investigator, strode past with Kingsley Shacklebolt in tow. Lily watched them go, remembering what she’d read about the compulsion spell they’d discovered. She wondered what traces that sort of thing left on people...how exactly this mattered to the case...what Hartwick was doing just then, going into Dervish and Banges…

All things you shouldn’t really wonder, walking hand in hand with your boyfriend.

 _Enough is enough_ , she thought. Germaine was right. She needed to say something. She ran a thumb over her wristwatch, expecting to feel familiar leather, and startled a little at the cold metal she touched instead. Her mother’s gift. Doris would tell her to be honest, as would Mary, and Doe. As would her father. What had James said the previous night? She couldn’t go her whole life worrying about what she might break. She couldn’t stay quiet just because she was afraid speaking up would be difficult.

“What’s wrong?” Lily said.

Dex jumped. He’d been as lost in thought as she had, apparently. 

“Nothing,” he said, his tone unconvincing. She gave him a look. “I really don’t want to get into it.”

Her better instincts were screaming at her to just drop it, but Lily was _tired_ of that approach.

“Well, if you don’t want to get into it _I_ don’t want to spend a miserable morning strolling around Hogsmeade in silence.” She didn’t sound cross, not exactly. She was matter-of-fact and determined. She let go of his hand.

Dex looked taken aback. He drew in a shaky breath. “I — all right. Mum and Dad don’t think I should go to culinary school.”

“What?” Immediately Lily felt a wave of pity. “Why not?”

“My cousin’s taking over the ice cream shop, and he’ll need help at first.” He was avoiding meeting her gaze, arms crossed over his chest. “That’s what they said when I wrote them about it, anyway. My uncle Florean’s ill, so it’s all hands on deck.”

“Oh, Dex. What do you think you’ll do?” She thought she knew what he would say, but she had to ask anyway.

“There’s not much I can do, is there?” Dex huffed out a bitter laugh. “I thought if I showed them how good my marks are in Potions and Herbology and Charms, how badly I want it… But there’s no point in trying so hard if they won’t even let me go.”

She gave his elbow a sympathetic squeeze. “Maybe you can take some time off, help in the shop, and then try again next year? Surely working in an ice cream parlour would be relevant experience. They might like you even more.”

Dex sighed. “I suppose. I was just — so certain it’d happen for me.”

It was a reason she was willing to accept, which was almost relieving. At least he was not cheating on her, as Germaine had thought. But then Lily felt guilty for her relief. 

She shook her head. “Your uncle’s ill, you’ve rowed with your parents — why didn’t you say something? Instead of just...stewing?” She was aware of her own hypocrisy, but she needed to know the answer.

He grew sheepish. “I didn’t think we were...like that, I don’t know.”

That stopped her short. “Like — what?”

“Serious.”

She detached her hands from his arm once more. _Serious_. This was the question she’d been asking herself since the New Year, of course. But it sounded so much worse now, spoken into the cold February morning.

She realised it hurt to know he’d been just as confused as she — which made no _sense_ , but there it was. She’d been so worried about coming across a prude, clinging onto him after she’d had sex with him, that she had been too scared to ask where they stood. What was his excuse? Lily hoped he had one.

“Is that why you never talked about it?” she said quietly.

“Talked about what?” It was Dex’s turn to frown.

Irrational anger spiked through her. She had been kind, and observant, and she had asked him about himself instead of bringing up her own worries first. She did not mind practising kindness or attentiveness but all she asked was that it be returned to her.

“Go on, then,” Lily said. “Ask me.”

“Ask you _what_?” At last he sounded frustrated.

They had come to a standstill in the street, right in front of Tomes and Scrolls. Lily could see herself in the glass behind him, a smudgy watercolour of red cheeks and stiff annoyance.

“Ask me why _I’ve_ been upset for six weeks. If you’ve noticed at all.”

Perhaps that was too spiteful a way to phrase it. But she couldn’t take it back. And Dex was caught — he could not complain about her not having told him, not after she’d just had to talk him into admitting what was bothering him.

“The thing is,” Lily went on, “either you noticed and you didn’t care, or you didn’t notice _because_ you didn’t care.”

All at once she felt like the same wrung-out girl she’d been boarding the Hogwarts Express after the winter holidays. The hurt of his inattention was new and huge again. 

“So tell me, then,” he said, somewhere between a statement and a plea.

“You never said a word to me, after we had sex. You didn’t — didn’t take me home yourself, you didn’t ask how I felt, you all but ignored me. And I spent so much time thinking I’d done something wrong.” She hadn’t wanted to cry, but the tears spilled over anyway. She brushed them away with impatience. “Did I?”

Dex looked nothing short of horrified. “No! No, of course not — Lily—” he lowered his voice, took her hands in his “—was that...the first time?”

She wanted to laugh. What came out was a wet sort of sob instead. 

“You didn’t say.” He sounded positively bewildered. “You didn’t — I wouldn’t have—”

Lily believed him. She didn’t think he was a bad person, not at all. She knew she ought to have said something, but she also thought he ought to have asked. She’d been sixteen and he was her first boyfriend and though it was true that you ought never to make assumptions she thought most people who knew her would have guessed she was a virgin. Dex’s crime was carelessness — not a capital sin. But one that she found hard to get around, at present. 

Besides, how could she have explained to him just then, standing in the snow outside Tomes and Scrolls, that she’d worried what he would think and how she’d seem? She realised, now and all too late, that it had been a mistake to think she could be casual in her affections. That keeping things light and breezy hadn’t worked, because she wanted to fall harder than that.

“I should have been honest with you earlier. I know that, and I’m sorry — and I’m sorry about your parents, but I — I’m going to try to make up for it by being honest with you now.” She sniffed and wiped away her residual tears. “I do care about you, and I think you care about me. I do want to keep seeing you. But I want us to actually _talk_ to each other. And not just about silly everyday things. I want us to try being serious about each other.”

He nodded, swallowed hard. “But?"

She gave him a watery smile. “I need some time to think, first. Given all that, do you still want to see me?”

Dex pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Of course I do. And I never meant to hurt you — not for an instant—”

“I _know_. It’s all right.” She stepped away from him. “Go find your friends, Dex. I’ll see you around.”

“You’re — you’re sure?”

She patted the pendant around her neck. “Positive.” 

With a last smile at him, Lily turned around and set off in the direction of the Three Broomsticks. She felt good, about what she’d said. But she felt like she could sleep for weeks too. She could try to find Germaine and Doe — but if she couldn’t find her friends, she would simply head back to the castle. Not that a boy had spoiled her day, but she thought she could use the solitude. It was perfect hot chocolate weather, after all.

Lily Evans believed in second chances. She only hoped this would have the same success as the previous one.

Doe stepped out of the changing room in a bright red, fur-collared robe about four inches too long for her five-foot-six frame. She looked like a child who’d broken into her mother’s closet. There was no way Germaine could keep a straight face at _this_. 

But the Gladrags aisle she found herself in was empty. 

“Germaine?” she called hopefully.

“ _Dorcas?_ ”

That was not Germaine’s voice.

Doe nearly shouted _don’t come back here!_ But it was too late. Michael Meadowes skirted around a rack of ugly jumpers and came face to face with her. For a moment both of them stood in perfect silence. She took in his blue jumper, which fit his shoulders quite snugly. Then she remembered what _she_ was wearing, which was probably the reason why he was looking at her with his mouth wide open.

“I can explain,” Doe began.

He seemed to be trying very hard to hold back his laughter, which she appreciated. “Whatever do you need to explain? Looks like a brilliant getup to me.”

She laughed, hoping her embarrassment wasn’t obvious. “I look like Santa Claus.”

“No,” Michael corrected, reaching for something at her shoulder, “you look like Santa Claus with a gambling problem.”

Doe nearly jumped at his touch. But all he was doing was holding up the horrifying tassels attached to the robe’s padded shoulders: five red-beaded strings, from which dangled five bright red dice.

“Oh!” Now she really couldn’t suppress her giggles. “Oh, I didn’t even notice.”

He gave her a mock-outraged look. “Didn’t even _notice?_ It’s only the best feature. Here, do you have a set on the other shoulder?”

She turned around so he could see her other side. “Do I?”

Michael burst into laughter. “You don’t. Did they forget to add it to this shoulder, or is asymmetry the fashion?”

“Oh — _stop_ , the shop assistant saw Germaine and me laughing at a set of robes, and gave us the nastiest look,” Doe whispered. “It’s really — don’t laugh, it’s really practical.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Because, er, when I’m elderly and want to shout at the children on my street, I can threaten to chuck my dice at them.”

Michael’s eyes went wide. And then he was doubled over laughing, and she was too, holding onto his arm for support. When they’d just about recovered, a new, ill-advised idea occurred to Doe. 

“Wait—” She stepped away from him, still grinning, and shimmied her shoulders. “It’s rolling the dice for me, look—”

“Spectacular. Do it again, would you?”

Doe did, but it seemed the tassels weren’t as securely attached as she’d hoped. On this round of shimmying three of the dice broke off and scattered beads all over the shop floor. She let out a little gasp and Michael swore, and both of them immediately crouched down to chase after them.

“You get the beads, I’ll reattach them,” Michael said, one hand protectively cupped over the remaining tassels.

Doe suppressed another bout of laughter and summoned the beads in a whisper, scrabbling after the dice. She pressed them into his hands and waited as he fished out his wand. He had such an adorable expression of concentration, she thought. She’d seen him wear it many times before, when they’d studied together, but never in such close quarters. There were faint freckles on the bridge of his nose. He was so focused his tongue was sticking out, just a little.

“I didn’t know you knew any, um, domestic spells,” she said.

For he was adding neat knots to the tassels after he’d strung them with beads. “I learned, mostly because I knew my parents would tell me to put myself to good use after I turn seventeen.” He grinned, fixing one die back into place. 

“Oh, that’s sweet of you.”

“I expect I’ll lose patience the moment Dad asks why there isn’t a beekeeping spell, or something like that.” Michael rolled his eyes. “It’s odd, explaining it to them.”

Doe smiled. “My grandparents — my mum’s parents, that is — they don’t really get it, even though Mum’s lived with it for years now. I don’t think it ever gets easy. But of all the complicated things to have to explain to your family, magic has to be the most exciting.”

Michael laughed. “You’re not wrong, I suppose. That’ll teach me for being an ingrate.”

“I’m sure you’re not—” She broke off, hearing footsteps. “Oh, _Merlin_ if it’s the shop assistant she’s going to make me pay for this hideous robe—”

“Oh no, she won’t.” He hauled her to her feet and pressed his shoulder to hers. The tassels were hidden from view. Doe was very aware of the warmth of him. _Oh, no_ , she thought.

“Here, this is the funniest pair of socks I could find—” It was Germaine; she broke off at the sight of Michael and Doe, who sprang apart.

She glanced between them, frowning. “Are you two all right?”

“Oh, perfectly,” said Michael before Doe could answer. He pushed something into her hand — the last little red die. “I should be off, actually — I’ve got to tutor this fourth year—”

“On a Hogsmeade weekend?” Doe said, incredulous.

“Well, he wanted to do it yesterday, but Quidditch ran awfully long — sorry, Germaine,” he added in her direction. “Besides, since Mary didn’t ask me out I had no plans this weekend at all.” Michael gave Doe a big wink, waved at Germaine, and hurried for the door.

Belatedly, Dorcas let out a hollow laugh.

Germaine sighed. “You aren’t the first to fancy a Ravenclaw you thought you were mates with. Just don’t go snogging him before you think things through.” Then she did a double take, finally processing what Doe was wearing. “What the fuck is that monstrosity?”

The shop assistant had just rounded the corner; her expression grew thunderous at Germaine’s words.

“Out!” she ordered. “Both of you!”

* * *

_ii. A Brief History of James Potter and Marissa Beasley_

Most things concerning James Potter came with a story. This held true of his relationship (though both would balk slightly at the word) with one Marissa Beasley. That history was certainly not the long and storied one he shared with Lily Evans, which is our chief concern here. But that's a good thing — we can allow ourselves a brief divergence into one of the shorter threads in the vast tapestry of Hogwarts connections.

In September, 1971, James Potter did not know who Marissa Beasley was. Marissa Beasley did not know who James Potter was.

Marissa came from a moderately well-off family. Her mother held an administrative position in the Wizengamot. Her father was a Muggle, and had been a decorated RAF officer in World War II. The Beasleys enjoyed a quiet life in London. Their daughter, a cheerful, curious girl, had spent four-odd years at a Muggle primary school before Hogwarts, though her parents knew, of course, that she was a witch. But they hadn't the time to homeschool her, and Marissa's cleverness needed tending.

Even as a child, she'd had impressive control over accidental magic — she was rarely provoked into a temper, and so rarely lashed out. She played hockey, grew to a beanstalk height for an eleven-year-old, and had a smashing first year at Hogwarts. It was like Enid Blyton, only with magic. 

The pair came into contact only once in Marissa's second year. James and Sirius had chosen the library to be the site of their little inkpot war — so named because they were levitating pots of ink at each other — much to Madam Pince's displeasure. Marissa was in the Charms section, where James was peering through the gaps in the books, trying to spot his target.

"Oi," Marissa whispered, "could you budge over? I need a book."

James looked at her. _Ravenclaw_ , he thought dismissively. "Yeah, all right."

She took her book and left.

By September, 1974, James Potter did know who Marissa Beasley was. Marissa Beasley also knew who James Potter was.

A newfound appreciation for girls had taught James that not all Ravenclaws were smarmy and boring. And the castle was more than just a battleground, or a site for their mischief — the boys were beginning to make use of the fact that Hogwarts was full of people, with their own quirks and idiosyncrasies and broom cupboard trysts. The Marauders, as purveyors of mischief, were often well-positioned to hear school gossip, and so they began to gather it. Never let someone tell you girls gossip more than boys.

So James knew of Marissa Beasley, who fancied sixth year Frank Longbottom like mad. (Or so school gossip said.) Personally, James thought that was a doomed pursuit, so long as Frank Longbottom went out of his way to be around Alice St. Martin. But, anyway. 

Marissa was a newly-minted prefect that year, and was warned of the nuisance that Potter and Black would no doubt be causing. She thought they were funny.

In September, 1975, James was on the run from Filch. He had just poured hot water and tea leaves into the caretaker's file cabinet — a story for another day — and was fleeing his office. He had underestimated how nearby Filch was, however, and found himself caught between him and the prefects on patrol. James had the Cloak, and so he could have simply stood in the corridor and hoped for the best, but he could hear Filch talking to his awful cat, and he worried Mrs. Norris would sniff him out.

He stuffed himself into a nearby cupboard, nearly knocking over a bucket of cleaning solution, and crouched in a corner, pulling the Cloak off so he could breathe a little better.

"I'll check the cupboard," a girl's voice said, "but I'm sure no one's here, Mr. Filch."

Mr. Filch! James was momentarily distracted by that. He was so busy trying not to laugh that he had no time to put the Cloak over himself once more. And then the cupboard door was swinging open, letting in moonlight and Marissa Beasley. In the silver light, there was a slight crease between her brows and a businesslike purse to her lips. James was already besotted with a different girl, but he thought Marissa Beasley looked very pretty. 

She spotted him at once, eyes widening. He held up a finger to his lips, then clasped his hands together in prayer. _Please_ , he mouthed. She smiled, fighting back laughter.

"Nothing here," she called over her shoulder.

"You sure?" Filch growled.

"Positive."

She shut the cupboard firmly, and he let out a sigh of relief. When Filch's muttering had faded, James considered going out to find Marissa and say thank you. She _was_ pretty, and she seemed like a sport. But, well, he had a Mandrake leaf under his tongue at present, and it was probably not a good idea trying to carry on a conversation with a pretty girl like that. So he did not follow her.

In March, 1976, James was annoyed at Lily Evans. It was his and Remus's joint birthday party, and she had informed him that Firewhisky oughtn't be left in the common room where any old first year could drink it. In fact, _he_ shouldn't be drinking it either, seeing as how he was sixteen. James informed her she was a prig who had her nose permanently in a book. He drank a bit of the illicit Firewhisky, and he kissed Marissa Beasley.

In January, 1977, Marissa wasn't having a good start to the year. She had resolved the previous September to leave her feelings for Caradoc Dearborn firmly in the past, seeing as how he was one of her best mates. They'd broken up by mutual agreement the previous April, deciding they were better off as friends. In June, Marissa told Doc she fancied her neighbour, which might or might not have been true. She snogged him to be sure, and then decided it wasn't true. And in January, she still had feelings for her best mate. 

She hadn't had too much to drink at Evan Wronecki's party, since she was Apparating people back to her house, which had a working Floo connection. (Evan's was, at that moment, being repaired.) She played Mary Macdonald's drinking game and only had to drink one punishment cup. She danced with Annie Markham, but then Annie took a _smoke break_ with Sirius Black. Doc was fiddling with Evan's record player.

Marissa hated pining. She knew her way around Evan's house and stepped into the empty hall for a bit of air. She sat down there, on the bottom step of the marble staircase, and listened to the distant strains of the party, thinking of nothing in particular.

James was snogging Cecily Sprucklin, until she broke off to complain to him about Chris Townes. This, he had not signed up for.

"Sounds like you ought to go snog Chris Townes, Cecily," he said, matter-of-fact.

Cecily blinked. "Oh. Maybe I will."

He was so weary he'd forgotten that Cecily's best friend fancied Chris — you could forgive him for the slip-up, in that moment. Cecily flounced off, and James inadvertently set a landmine that would blow up that spring. But it's not time for that story yet. 

Marissa ferried the last of the underage crowd to her home, James and Sirius included. Sirius stepped into the fireplace first, said, "The Potters', Virginia Water," and was gone. James was about to follow, but he noticed the empty look on Marissa's face. He leaned against the wall by the still-burning fireplace.

"Doc?" he guessed.

She gave him a look that was part admiration, part exasperation. "Do you know everything about everyone?"

James shook his head. "Most things, though." He shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped closer to her. "D'you want to talk about it?" He was thinking of that night over a year ago, her smile as she'd shut the cupboard and fibbed to Filch. She hadn't needed to do that. 

She shrugged. "There's not much to say. I ought to be over it by now."

Oh, he knew how _that_ felt. "Can't help that you're with him so much."

"He's my best mate."

James supposed that was a good enough reason. Lily wasn't even his best mate, but he couldn't seem to keep away from her. 

Marissa huffed, hands on her hips. "He was snogging Mary Macdonald."

He didn't know what to say to that, caught as he was between sympathising with Marissa and defending Mary, whom he liked. He chose silence; it seemed as though Marissa wasn't done speaking yet.

"It wasn't even a — an it's-midnight-kiss-the-first-person-you-see sort of thing," she went on. "I mean, it's a day late for that." She laughed, shaking her head. " _Listen_ to me." Her smile was wry, self-deprecating; it made James feel it was safe to joke.

"Self-pity isn't a very good look on you," he said, grinning. She scoffed, rolled her eyes — but she was smiling still. "'Sides, anyone can give you a day-late New Year's kiss."

"Anyone?" Marissa repeated. 

"Absolutely anyone," James confirmed, and he kissed her in the empty sitting room.

* * *

_iii. Chance Encounters_

The Three Broomsticks was packed full of students trying to escape the cold. Lily didn’t miss the Auror hovering in the back — Gareth Greer, she thought, the fourth trainee who’d come up to guard the castle. Right in front of him was a table of Slytherins: Severus, Thalia Greengrass, other vaguely familiar faces she did not recognise. Alec Rosier too, staring into a bottle, and a paler, taller version of him that must have been his elder brother. Lily looked away.

The centre of the inn’s noise was, of course, the Marauders, though she could only spot three of them. She suppressed a sigh.

There was Amelia Bones, and there was Emmeline Vance, a crying blonde girl sandwiched between them. Stephen Fawcett, the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain, sat on Amelia's other side, looking extremely put out that she wasn't giving him the time of day.

Germaine and Doe were nowhere to be seen. Well, she’d tried. She had a special spiced chocolate she’d been saving for a rainy day, and Lily thought she deserved it just then.

She turned around without paying attention to her surroundings in the slightest, and promptly walked into something solid.

“Oh!” Lily staggered backwards, rather winded.

“Lucky for you I just set these down,” James drawled, jerking a thumb towards the mugs of Butterbeer on the bar behind him. “Or we’d both have been in a very sticky situation.”

She rolled her eyes, straightening her scarf. “Sorry.”

He waved away her apology. “Going so soon?” At her nod, he said, “Ah, Evans, you’ve got to see Peter dance a jig with the leprechauns.”

She found, suddenly, that she didn’t want to exchange cheerful jabs with James. Not at present — not with the conversation she’d just had lingering in her head. Part of her was still surprised by what she’d done the night before, telling him about her dad and possibly being a Healer — a conversation she hadn’t had with anyone since Careers Advice with McGonagall the previous year.

But he had taken it quite well… He’d even given her _advice_ … It had been almost uncomfortable, sitting there faced with his sincerity, hesitant and halting though it was. _You know I think you want to help people… But you don’t need me to tell you that_. She’d asked anyway, despite the frank, unnerving look he wore: _what do I need you to tell me?_

What, indeed? The world was upside-down. Lily’s relationship was no longer a bright spot, and her birthday had gone horribly, and Hogwarts was unsafe, and James Potter gave good advice. James Potter gave good advice and — and — and James Potter had her copy of _Persuasion_ , which left her with no fresh Austen to enjoy with her cup of hot chocolate.

Seeing as she had lent it to him, she could hardly fault him for having her book. But she wanted to anyway.

“I’m not in the mood, James,” she sighed, though her gaze flitted towards the table at which Peter was stretching alongside three jabbering leprechauns.

If she’d hoped this would get him to leave her alone, she was sorely mistaken. James leaned against the bar, arms folded across his chest, and arched his brows at her.

“Did you sleep all right?”

His words were heavy with meaning — she took this to be his way of asking _is it about your dad?_ Drat, she didn’t want him to be considerate. She didn’t want him there at all.

“Fine,” she said, “or as fine as I could. It’s not that.”

He relaxed, ever so slightly, and adjusted his glasses. She felt as though she were being scrutinised.

“Then—” Lowering his voice, James leaned a little closer and said, “Trouble in paradise?”

She scowled. “I said I’m not in the mood, didn’t I?”

He put his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry.” At her defiant look, his smile dropped. “Listen, about the broom cupboard—”

Lily huffed. “You know it’s not a broom cupboard, Potter, so stop harping on—”

“The _room_ , whatever, Jesus, let me finish—”

“ _No_ , I will not let you finish!” Her voice rose at the end of this sentence; glancing around to make sure no one had heard, Lily tried to regain her composure. “Anyway, you don’t have to search for it just now. It’s not that important.” 

She knew at once that she would regret saying so — there were two reasons she wanted to understand the secret room, after all. But every moment spent apart from her hot chocolate was a moment she felt herself growing crankier.

“Ah. So that’s how it is,” James said. "Can I ask—"

"Probably not."

"—why you were seeing him in the first place?"

Lily frowned. "I don't see why it's any of your business. And I still _am_ seeing him."

He shrugged. "Only curious. He doesn't at all seem your type."

"Maybe I'm playing against type, then."

He arched an eyebrow. "Dating someone just to be contrary? That's not very you either."

She shook her head, exasperated. "You seem to have a very well-defined idea of me in your head. What's not to like about Dex? He's funny, he's sweet, he's great company—"

"At the risk of sounding like someone's mum, those aren't very _forever love_ traits. I'm all for having fun in your youth, but..." He shrugged once more.

Lily was quietly fuming. He did look like he was having fun — fun poking at her, that is. A smile had made its way to his lips. It came with a faint almost-dimple, she noticed, in each cheek. It only served to infuriate her more.

"And why do you think I'm interested in _forever love_ at seventeen? Is it because you think I'm a prig who's got her nose permanently in a book, and I can't loosen up and enjoy myself, because I'm highly strung and have a stick up my arse?"

James let out a low whistle. "That all sounds like very specific things _you_ think about yourself, Evans. Don't bring me into this."

She scoffed. "They're all things you have said to me, Potter, over the course of our school years."

To his credit, he winced. "Not all at once, surely. And never the bit about forever love. And — you gave back as good as you got."

She was going to strangle him. "Is there something about annoying me that gives you extra pleasure? Some kind of Satanic mandate you're following?"

"Satanism's boring, Evans. I'd pick a cooler cult. To address the part of your question that _wasn't_ bait..." He drew in a breath, rumpled his hair with one hand. "I do think you're the forever love sort. I'm reading that book of yours, aren't I?"

This relatively inoffensive response deflated Lily's anger. As mortifying as it was for James Potter of all people to already know something she'd just started to realise about herself, she realised she was working herself up for no good reason.

Earlier she'd have said James did not deserve her time and energy. Now she reminded herself that they were mates, and he did not deserve her bad moods if they wanted to stay that way. If she was truly dedicated to turning over a new leaf, she had to make an effort not to snap at him just as he ought not to provoke her.

He seemed to take her silence as invitation to continue speaking.

“Anyway, what I was going to say before you cut me off, jokes about the cupboard aside—” she frowned at him, a warning “—jokes _aside_ , you know you shouldn’t, erm, you don’t have to do anything a bloke tells you? If someone’s pressuring you to mess around, especially your boyfriend, it makes him a prick. It’s obvious and you know it, obviously. But sometimes it can be good to hear— Why are you looking at me like that?”

Her annoyance hadn’t faded, but she was more surprised than ticked off with him. In a moment she would remember to be embarrassed, but not just yet.

“Are you explaining how sex works to me?” she said.

He rolled his eyes. “Okay, Evans. I’m sure Macdonald got to you first. What’s her encyclopaedic knowledge for, if not to spread to her mates?”

Lily flushed, partly because Mary _had_ got to her — had given her sex advice right before she and James had agreed to be friends. But mostly she flushed because the embarrassment had at last hit. _Deflect, deflect, deflect._

“Is this your way of telling me you’ve slept with Mary?” She wasn’t sure why she’d said it, given that her friend would definitely have told her if such a thing had happened.

James looked aghast. “Why would I have slept with Mary? I mean, no offence to her, she’s smart and a bit terrifying and a looker—”

“All right.”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Why are you so interested in my love life?”

“You’re the one interested in mine.”

“You’re the one who _asked_ me to be interested in yours.”

“James!”

“What?”

She huffed again, more insistently this time. “I’m now telling you not to be. The cupboard doesn’t matter.”

He tipped his head back, grinning. “First, you called it the cupboard. Second — what, you don’t want to find out what Rosier et al are up to?”

Lily opened her mouth to protest, but his expression was all too knowing. She deflated.

“Am I that transparent?”

He shrugged, looking terribly smug. “No, I’m just cleverer than you think. Well — mostly I thought there was no way you’d tell me about you and your man unless the alternative was worse. While I admire your desire to protect me, Evans—” she made a noise of protest “—I’m a big boy.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she mumbled. 

He ignored that. “Anyway, no luck thus far, they seem to be keeping away. If it’s what they use at all. But we’ll find out.”

She started at his use of _we_. James seemed just as taken aback by his own word choice. 

“Right,” she said slowly. That was one too many embarrassments in this conversation. She was itching to head up to the castle. “Right, well, I should—”

“At this rate you’ll miss the jig,” a voice said, its owner pushing through the crowd to stand beside them: Marissa Beasley, in sunflower-yellow corduroy trousers that Lily envied at once. She must have been wearing heeled boots. The Head Girl was nearly as tall as James.

“Peter wouldn’t start without me,” replied James easily. He handed her one of his Butterbeer mugs.

“Cheers,” said Marissa, smiling at Lily and then giving James a peck on the cheek. Then she melted back into the throng of students.

Lily was so taken aback she forgot to hide her reaction entirely. “You — you and Marissa!”

“Yes,” James said drily, “stop the presses.”

Her mind whirled. “But — she was going to Hogsmeade with Caradoc Dearborn.”

He laughed a little. “And then she didn’t?”

“Are you — how long have you been seeing her for?” Lily was trying to do the maths in her head. Had she seen the two of them together? Had there been any signs — anything that she could have used to reassure Mary?

Now James’s amusement gave way to confusion. “In the interest of not kissing and telling, I’ll just say it’s one date, Evans. What’s got you so worked up?”

“Nothing!” She was breathless, more determined than ever to go back to the castle. Typical, that everyone around her should be able to manage easy and breezy while she could not. Well, at least she could go give her friend the good news. “Just, Mary will be thrilled to know it.”

His confusion remained. “Will she?”

Belatedly Lily remembered she was not supposed to tell. “Er, don’t spread that around. Please.”

“Seeing as how I don’t even know what I’m spreading…”

She flapped a hand at him; the conversation seemed to end there, and Lily drew up the energy to walk out of the inn. But something held her there still. James had not moved either, to follow his date or to rejoin his friends.

“Anyway,” he said, and she knew he would say bye next. “Are you certain you want to turn down the chance to watch Peter dance? He really gets going when he’s got enough drink in him.”

So certain had she been of an impending dismissal that Lily didn’t know how to respond for several long moments. “I — Peter’s underage,” she said finally.

“You, Sirius, and Marissa aren’t, so you’ll be passing him Firewhisky, obviously. You got a good bit of practice in, slipping me some last night.”

To stay or to go? Lily thought again of hot chocolate, of the window seat in her dorm...of thinking and rethinking what she’d said to Dex. 

James waved a hand in her face then in the direction of the other Marauders. “Well? I’m not giving you time to do the Evans thing.”

“I won’t give you the satisfaction of asking _what Evans thing_ ,” she replied, crossing her arms. 

“Then I’ll just tell you. The Evans thing, where you go off to be introspective at a time when you really want to be with your mates.” She scoffed. “I seem to recall someone sitting alone in an armchair last night…”

She narrowed her eyes, thinking it was unfair of him to bring that up at all. But, all right, Lily wanted a distraction. And James seemed ready to provide it. And perhaps a funny part of her was still dwelling on the fact that he had observed things about her. Wasn't it the sort of kindness only friends offered, an attentiveness and a sensitivity to how you thought and how you saw the world?

“I can’t force you—” he began, picking up his Butterbeer.

“Oh, I’m coming. But I’m not slipping Peter anything,” Lily warned. James grinned as if he’d won something anyway.

The castle was eerily quiet, and Mary was beginning to regret both not going to Hogsmeade and not staying in Gryffindor Tower. She’d promised Doe she’d stay behind the Fat Lady’s portrait until students returned from the village, but that ambition had died a quick death. She’d tried to put a record on and just sing to herself, but Mary was an extrovert by nature and did not want to spend the day cooped up in the tower with a bunch of twelve- and eleven-year-olds. Which had then compelled her to go take a walk.

She’d stick to the fifth floor, she told herself. She took the west stairs down and started towards the east end of the castle, but _God_ , it really was empty. Did so many people actually leave to go to Hogsmeade? Her niggling anxiety was beginning to make her annoyed. 

You see, Mary Macdonald did not like being scared. She wore an armoured suit of bravado that had nearly fused to her skin. She had crafted the myth of herself to be big and untouchable, and so the reality of herself needed to have a certain swagger to live up to it. She’d arrived at Hogwarts ready to be her own creator, after years of being _the_ _funny Chinese girl who caused odd accidents_. If she had it her way, no one at the school, safe for her closest friends, would know a different sort of Mary. 

A chance encounter in her fifth year made that impossible.

It was not that a mere jinx or a hex would have permanently damaged Mary’s pride and confidence. Memorably, Amelia Bones had hit her with an eyebrow-growing jinx after she’d heard Mary had kissed Chris Townes, back in fourth year. (Mary still maintained her innocence in the whole debacle.)

Weeks afterward Amelia told anyone who’d listen how Mary Macdonald had had caterpillars for brows...except Mary’d gone to Madam Pomfrey so quickly that all evidence of the spell had vanished, unseen by anyone except Amelia herself. Mary wore her best makeup for the rest of the week, along with her bitchiest expressions. What chance did a story of her at her ugliest have, in the face of her formidable present state?

But the myth of Mary Macdonald had its limits. For weeks after her run-in with Avery and Mulciber Mary would tell herself she must have said something to draw their attention, must have provoked them more directly… That was not the truth of the matter.

The truth, which she knew in the back of her mind, was that her being Muggle-born and existing in their periphery was provocation enough. She hadn’t cussed at them (though she probably had) or rolled her eyes at them (though she probably had) or talked loudly about how they had shit for brains (that one, she remembered doing) — the point was that she hadn’t done anything to _deserve_ what they did to her.

She almost wished she had. Because then it would make sense, a clean logical coldness to the worst day of her life. 

Mary knew that the enemy of fear was rationality. But rationality paled, sometimes, in the face of bitter prejudice, of the cruelty of young men. Still, what could she do? Some students whispered about what happened to her, in the months that followed. And then they moved on. Mary simply pretended she’d moved on with them.

Some days the pretence of it was convincing enough to feel real. Today, the castle seemed more shadowed than ever. Fear prickled at her shoulders. Had Mulciber and Avery gone down to Hogsmeade? What if they were here?

What if they were following her?

Mary’s mind conjured up a gruesome image: herself, slumped like a rag doll underneath a black-lettered message. She couldn’t think what it would say. The more immediate concern was that version of her. How had Gerard McIlhenny been hurt? Would she be hurt the same way? Was it self-centred, to feel as though they were coming after her next?

She sped up, mind whirling. The Aurors were in the castle, weren’t they? She could go find one of them, keep them company as they patrolled. She’d even make nice with that Edgar Bones if she had to. She’d tell him how nice his little sister was. A nervous laugh escaped her lips, echoing down the empty corridor.

Were those footsteps, behind her?

They were definitely footsteps, and they were getting closer.

Her hand went to her pocket, fingers wrapping tightly around her wand. Oh, why couldn’t she have been better at duelling? But she could still use the element of surprise… Mary ducked around the next corner and pressed herself against the wall. The footsteps grew louder still. _Stay calm_ , she told herself, though that didn’t stop her heart racing. She realised she’d shut her eyes, on instinct, and forced them open once more. It sounded like only _one_ person, but she would have to be ready for two...just in case, just in case those shadows from her nightmares had returned…

And then she could see a shadow across the stone floor, and she was pointing her wand at a figure thinking the first spell that came to mind: _Levicorpus!_

She wished Flitwick had been there to see it. Mary had struggled the past few months with non-verbal spells, but apparently she performed very well when afraid for her life.

Her target let out a half-strangled yell, jerked into the air by his ankle. His arms pinwheeled for purchase, his face growing red with the effort. 

“Jesus Christ, lemme down—” Chris Townes gasped.

Mary unfroze and cast the counter-jinx, her blood pounding in her ears. “Are you out of your mind?” she shrieked. “Why were you following me? Didn’t you think it might, I don’t know, _scare_ me out of my _wits_?”

Chris tumbled to the ground but managed to land in a position of careless grace, hand propping up his head as he looked at her. 

“You seem to have your wits about you fine enough,” he said, rolling his eyes. 

“Ha _ha_. Don’t make me jinx you again, Townes.”

“If you must know—” He stood, brushing off his shirt and his hair. Mary noted that his shirt was emblazoned with a Hexettes logo. The Hexettes were _so_ dull. It was just Chris to have no taste in music. “—I saw you walking around alone and thought it wasn’t very safe.”

She rolled her eyes. “So you thought you’d come remind me how unsafe it is? Blessed Jesus and Mary. You’ve done that, so now you can — push off, or whatever.”

“Why don’t I walk you back to Gryffindor Tower?”

The words were innocuous enough but Mary recognised the little hint in the question. It was not just a walk Chris had in mind. 

She frowned. “You’re seeing the Duckling.”

Chris shrugged. “She snogged a seventh year. She and Flo have a weird — never mind. I think that gives me a snog plus tax. That’s equivalent exchange, isn’t it, from Alchemy class?”

Mary scoffed. “You’re disgusting and incorrigible.” 

“I don’t know what that second one means, but I like the sound of it. You should corrige me, Mac.”

She made a gagging sound.

Mary Macdonald knew that making the same mistake twice was for idiots. Chris Townes was seeing Cecily Sprucklin, who might not be as handy with eyebrow-growing jinxes as Amelia Bones but was probably still capable of some hellion-level woman-scorned rage. Also, Florence Quaille was in love with Chris.

But then again, if Florence was in love with Chris and Cecily was her best mate, then it was in Florence’s best interest for Chris and Cecily to break up. Cecily’s, too, because her best mate ought to come before a bloke.

And why was she, Mary, sitting around pining after a boy who clearly thought she was a yearly snog at a party? Maybe good guys were overrated, and Mary’s long-held queendom of broom cupboards and secret trysts should remain hers a little longer. Maybe she _hadn't_ learned her lesson from fourth year and Amelia Bones after all.

Making the same mistake twice was for idiots, but better the mistake you know than the one you don’t. Or something like that.

Chris hadn’t moved while she’d deliberated, a horrible knowing smile on his face. Mary evaluated him clinically: hair a pale blonde and a little too long, dimples (his best feature), a face that hadn’t yet lost all its baby fat. Chris Townes was a boy, and he was definitely _not_ Doc Dearborn.

“You are so lucky, getting this twice,” she grumbled, closing the distance between them.

As a rule Mary gave some boys passes for their generally terrible personalities. Colin Rollins, for one. Chris Townes was another — maybe even the first. He’d been a cute thirteen year old, which meant that he’d been awfully aware of his appeal throughout his adolescence thus far. If life were fair, Chris Townes would have had an awkward phase. At least he was a good kisser, and, as Mary was currently discovering, he had even improved.

“Come on, we are not standing here snogging in the corridor,” Mary said, and so they made their way to the west end of the castle, taking breaks when she deemed it appropriate and _not_ when he glanced hopefully at broom cupboards. 

By the time they were at the staircase, she had to admit that Chris was fun. The ordeal that was fancying Doc was dramatic and exhausting, but there were easier things to be had. She was sixteen, not an old maid. Bless Doe, but she had been wrong about pursuing Doc properly. The only thing to it was to snag a rebound. 

“Trick stair on this one,” she warned, detaching herself from him. She was halfway up the flight of stairs when she heard a howl.

“Oh — would someone come _help_ — anybody!” The voice had an odd, thick accent; it was deep and unfamiliar.

Mary immediately broke into a sprint. Up the staircase, round the corner — and there was the painting of the giant princess, the figure inside it sobbing and pointing. Slumped against the wall opposite her was a body. _MUDBLOOD SCUM_ was scrawled across the wall; her vision blurred. Mary’s heart thudded painfully against her ribs. Had she conjured this up by imagining it? But it was someone else. Not her. Dark hair, patrician nose, face blanched white—

“Michael?” she whispered. She hardly heard herself over the painting’s wails.

Chris had come up behind her; he paled as he took in the scene. “Mike? Merlin—”

Moving without realising it, Mary sank to her knees beside him and pressed a hand to his neck. Was he dead? He couldn’t be dead, he _couldn’t_ be— Beneath her fingers was a faint, fluttering heartbeat.

“Get a teacher,” Mary snapped at Chris. “Now!”

“The— The _blood_ ,” Chris said, apparently rooted to the spot.

“Chris! Go get—” But it was clear he was not going to be of much help. “Listen to me, stay — stay with him and, er, press down on the wound—” Her mind was a panicked cycle of _fuck shit fuck shit fuck_ — “Can you do that? He needs — he needs Pomfrey right away—”

“I don’t know! I don’t know if I—”

“You fucking have to!” Mary shouted, then reminded herself he would not be useful if he went into shock. “For Michael’s sake, all right?”

She began backing away — saw but barely took in the letters scrawled over Michael’s head — but suddenly they were not alone in the corridor. Questions washed over her: _when how long ago how what who who who_ and then Professor McGonagall was there, steering her away from the message. 

“—something for the shock,” she was saying, brisk and businesslike, her accent the rolling lilt of Mary’s home—

“I’m not in shock,” Mary said. Her ears were ringing; the corridor swam before her vision. “I’m not—”

The professor’s grip tightened on her elbow. “—all right, Macdonald — you got to him quick enough — put one foot in front of the other—”

She did, but she was not there. She was very far away.

* * *

_iv. Not So Nice_

Michael Meadowes hated secrets and lies. Of course, the world has a peculiar way of pitting us against things we hate, so when he was seven, secrets and lies became a regular part of his life. Little Michael caused _accidents_ , and his parents had to cover up said accidents with elaborate fibs. And soon the accidents — falling vases, burning toast — happened too frequently for him to attend school.

The Meadowes were perfectly happy people, you see, and it is easy to conceal lies with your perfect happiness. Brian Meadowes had just taken up beekeeping. Michael helped his father with the bees and was stung quite often. Jacqueline Meadowes worked at a country club, tending to the horses. Michael learned to ride. He learned his sums and practised his alphabets, and he had very few friends. 

When he began attending Hogwarts, there were still more lies to be told — his parents came up with a pretend boarding school, so they all stuck to the same story when speaking to extended family. Michael did not like practical magic, because all his life he had been expected to hide it. While his classmates caused minor explosions in Charms class, Michael practised incantations under his breath, mastered wand movements, and had to be gently prodded into _trying_ by his professors.

But he did love learning. He was curious, and a lonely childhood had cultivated his bookishness. There was a wealth of secret, magical knowledge out there for him to unlock, and he vowed to do it.

How, though, could he stomach balancing truth-seeking at school with the fabulously-embellished lies he told at home? He had control of his magic now, and spent his summers and winters in the little town he'd grown up in — but properly _in_ town, not just helping his father with the bees or his mother with the horses. He could not _be_ a secret.

Christmas of his fourth year, visiting an aunt and uncle, Michael's aunt Sarah had seen him holding hands with the neighbours' son. She'd nervously referred to them as _friends_ thereafter. 

He was sick of lies.

That same winter, at the cheery diner in town where Michael read when he wanted to get out of the house, he noticed the young, chipper waitress was lingering at his table. As in, trying to see what he was reading. As in, asking him with extra enthusiasm if he wanted eggnog, "Mum's secret recipe, but I've made some fixes and I could use a taste tester." As in, saying, "It's funny, I'm always calling you table four, can I just put your name on your order?" in a transparent attempt to get his name. He obliged.

She was pretty; she had dark hair which she wore in a blunt bob, a pert, upturned nose, and a wintry rosiness in her cheeks. He went from saying "thanks" when she brought him his order to saying "Thanks, Katie."

Katie Halliday kissed him the day before he left for school again. 

He wrote her via his parents — the excuse here was that boarding school was very strict, and Michael was only allowed to write to his family. She wrote him back, and Jacqueline Meadowes did not open her letters before forwarding them to Michael. He told her about his father's bees, the boy who lived next door to Aunt Sarah, and his pet cat. Katie told him about her mother, who ran the diner, and her father, who'd run off when Katie was a little girl, and how Mrs. Halliday constantly said she ought to marry a boy who'd keep her safe. It felt very wrong, slipping in lies about how boring boarding school was into these very honest letters.

Still, Michael did it, because he didn't want Katie to think he was crazy. In the summer he showed her the bees and taught her to ride on the club's most docile mare, and they kissed some more. Katie Halliday was fifteen, almost a year older than Michael, and her tinkling laugh drove him crazy, and he was in love.

By the end of the summer Brian and Jacqueline doted on Katie. Mrs. Halliday was a little less enthusiastic, because she, unlike her daughter, remembered the funny Meadowes boy who broke things when he got in a temper and had to be homeschooled. Granted, he had been young, and he seemed reformed. But how could she in good conscience encourage her daughter to pursue a boy who might have had anger problems?

In any case, it quickly became clear to Katie that her boyfriend — attentive and funny and kind as he was — was hiding something. He didn't seem to have sat his O Levels; apparently his fancy boarding school used some other syllabus. Only, he never talked about his subjects. And where did Brian and Jacqueline, who did not struggle for money but certainly were not well-off, get the funds to put their son through a school like that? Katie didn't _think_ Michael was secretly at correctional school — one of Mrs. Halliday's worst theories — but suspicion had set in. 

Lies bred lies, which Michael knew well. That summer he sensed something was different, and so in July he told her about magic. Well, part of the problem was that he couldn't _do_ it to show her, because he was underage. But he did show her his textbooks, a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , a Hexettes record.

He tried to put himself in her shoes, to predict what he would do, as a Muggle, if faced with the suggestion that magic was real. He offered to have his parents tell her about Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, and Hogwarts, and the wizard who'd come to tell them Michael was like him. Katie had gone very pale and very quiet, and told him she needed space. 

Michael went to the diner to read anyway, resolving not to _change_ his holiday routine on her account. They were, after all, still dating. No dramatic arguments had occurred. (Even if Mrs. Halliday, when she saw him in the diner, made oblique references to tall tales. This, in retrospect, was a very bad sign.) 

It seemed that Katie had sought solace elsewhere, that is, in the arms of a boy visiting Cornwall with his parents. Michael couldn't fathom why she'd thought two lies would somehow cancel out. But that had been the end of that. Michael Meadowes continued to hate secrets and lies. He stopped going to the diner. 

“You,” Madam Pomfrey said when Michael woke on Monday afternoon, “need to rest.”

On Tuesday morning when he was deemed well enough to accept visitors, he told Pomfrey not to let anyone in.

“I’m tired,” he said. He wasn't, not _physically_. But he was certain he did not have the energy to face his mates, who would ask what had happened, and if it hurt, and he would need to tell them it was all right, and things weren't all that bad. 

You see, no matter how much Michael Meadowes hated secrets and lies, he still reverted to them when hurt.

“Tired?” Pomfrey repeated, alarmed. “Do you feel any pain around the wound? No? There, sit up slowly, and we’ll see if anything’s changed—”

On Wednesday morning, the Meadowes met with Professor Flitwick. A lengthy discussion ended the professor’s way — curse wounds of this sort could not be treated by any Muggle physician, and so Michael absolutely needed Madam Pomfrey’s attention. And the culprit would be caught, of course. (Good, Jacqueline Meadowes had informed him, because they would pull their son from school if that did not happen.)

They visited Michael, who had been debating whether or not to pretend to sleep before deciding being awake would convince them he was well enough to stay on. He hadn’t heard their conversation with Flitwick, of course, but he’d guessed what would be said. He still had not seen any of his friends.

On Thursday morning, Michael ate porridge and apples from the Great Hall — he could tell because it tasted better than the other infirmary food. He was in a good mood. So when Pomfrey told him he had a visitor he said he would see them, assuming it was Gaurav or Lottie or Chris or Florence. It was not Gaurav or Lottie or Chris or Florence. It was Dorcas Walker.

“How are you feeling?” she whispered, as if a louder voice would break him.

Michael had not expected this at all. He felt as though he’d been knocked off-balance. 

“All right,” he said finally, deciding that was closest to the truth.

She sat down in a chair next to his bed and crossed her ankles. She seemed to find something about her own ankles quite fascinating. Michael looked at her, because she was not looking at him. Her hair, long and curly, was usually let loose around her shoulders, held back by an Alice band. Today it was in a thick plait. She fiddled with the end of it. 

“Do they know who did it? Was there an Olivia Nott, I mean,” Michael said. 

Her eyes grew wide. “Oh! I thought you’d have a better idea than any of us… They didn’t find anyone running off, that is. At least, that’s what Mary says. She and Chris—”

“Found me, I know.”

Another silence.

“Oi, don’t we have Defence?” said Michael.

“We do. I’ve got time.”

“It’s your favourite subject.”

Doe rolled her eyes. “My favourite subject doesn’t take precedence over my hurt friend, Michael.”

“I’m no longer hurt,” he pointed out. “I’m just resting.”

“Well, technicalities.”

He didn’t want her to tell _him_ the technicalities here. 

“I feel so stupid,” she said suddenly. He got the impression that _this_ , whatever came next, was why she’d really come. “I feel so stupid, because I let you go back to the castle on Sunday—”

“Please, don’t.” Now he _did_ feel physically tired. “Please don’t.”

“—or I should’ve gone with you, or _some_ thing, I shouldn’t have let it happen—” She broke off.

“Right,” said Michael. “Because I _let it happen_.”

She looked up, met his gaze. “No. You know that’s not what I meant.”

He sighed. “I know you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, very quietly.

“I know.”

“I just hate feeling powerless,” he confessed, which was more than he’d said on the subject to most people he knew. But he thought Dorcas — who argued with radio show hosts, who wrote letters to the _Prophet_ , who stormed WWN offices — would understand. Would also hate feeling powerless.

“I know,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“They’re going to find out who did it.” Her voice was still soft, but her eyes were bright. This was, after all, the girl who argued with radio show hosts and wrote letters to the _Prophet_ and stormed WWN offices.

Michael stiffened. “Just promise you’re not going to try and get involved.”

“What?” she drew back, looking bewildered. “I’m — well — I mean, I asked around a—”

“ _Don’t_ do it,” he said sharply.

Her lips parted but she made no reply. He felt justified, a little, in having said what he’d said — clearly she would not look so caught if she hadn’t been considering it. 

“Right,” she said, her voice faint. “I’ll. Okay.”

“You ought to hurry, before you’re late for class.”

She nodded and said goodbye, and gave him a packet of Jelly Slugs. He thanked her for visiting. He rolled onto his other side, and slept through the rest of Thursday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two kisses and one fight later... i love that everyone who guessed thought mary would be having the fight but lily stepped up hehe. what's the consensus on dex? is family and future upheaval a good enough excuse or is he not yet off the hook? do we believe his excuse fully?
> 
> it's funny, i was rereading old fic and realised lily's predecessor head girl in the life and times is also named marissa. of all the things to subconsciously absorb lol.
> 
> the next chapter is going to be Eventful, with a capital E. it's called consequence, and i can tell you that if you've been paying attention to teachers' gossip, you have a hint. and someone is going to be expelled from hogwarts by the end of it. it's coming a few days early (thurs at midnight EST) because i will be travelling (in a safe and socially distant manner ofc) and might not have access to my laptop over the weekend. so, yay, early chapter! although, after the way it ends you might just be more mad that i'm having you wait an extra few days for the one after that...
> 
> but i've said too much!
> 
> as always, take care, thank you SO much for reading, and drop a comment if you enjoyed! or a smiley face. or a cryptic message for me to decode. whatever works.
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	19. Consequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Snape etc. have a mysterious directive from the Death Eaters, and are involved in attacks on Muggleborns at school. Lily and James resolve to investigate. Doe is upset she couldn't stop Michael Meadowes from being hurt. James is sort of seeing Head Girl Marissa Beasley. Lily tells her boyfriend she needs space and, on impulse, confides in James about her father's death. 
> 
> NOW: James serves a detention. Lily cries in front of a boy, three separate times. Doe breaks a promise. The Marauders' plan goes very, very wrong, thanks to a longtime enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, longest chapter so far... I hope you enjoy! Some (non-graphic, brief) mentions of torture ahead. You're welcome for the shippy bits. Also...I'm sorry. Leave a comment!

_i. Endgame_

A bone-grinding burst of pain. James Potter was suddenly very certain he was about to die.

Death was a far-off thing for boys like him. James hardly ever looked two feet in front of himself. But this horrible, burning _pain_ could only end in darkness. What could come after it? 

It — slowed but did not fade, all of a sudden. That is, it no longer felt like being set on fire, but it still hurt, like his body was being weighed down— down— _down_ … Someone was shouting, and the echoing noise of it made his head throb. Someone else was kneeling beside him, the feather-light ends of her hair tickling his face. He really didn’t want to die. He closed his eyes.

Dorcas Walker cast a spell. Lily Evans realised it was her fault. Severus Snape wished it had been him, on two separate counts.

Nearly ten hours earlier, Dorcas Walker and Lily Evans were walking back from the greenhouses after the morning’s Herbology lesson. As usual, Lily had been late to breakfast, and so had missed the proper morning routine. Her stomach growled in protest as they trudged through the snow. Doe had a folded-up copy of the _Prophet_ , from which she was currently reading to her friend.

“They’ve got another break in the Hogsmeade murders,” said Doe, frowning at the newspaper. “The compulsion spell, it might be tied to magical objects—”

“The compulsion spell that didn’t kill either of the victims?” 

“That one, yes.”

“I wonder what that has to do with anything.” Lily stripped off her mittens when they entered the heated castle, sighing in relief. “The Death Eaters...compelled them to do something, then killed them?”

Doe shrugged. “I’d imagine so. They wouldn’t report it if it wasn’t important, right?”

They sat at the Gryffindor table, where the Marauders were already tucking into lunch. Lily frowned; she was certain she and Doe had left before them. 

“Or,” Sirius suggested, overhearing them, “they’re reporting it because the Aurors need to show they’ve found something out.” 

“I really don’t think—” Doe began.

“Just wait. They’ll cancel the next Hogsmeade weekend or something, because of _objects_.”

“Considering what happened during the last Hogsmeade weekend, maybe people should be more worried!” said Doe hotly.

Lily put a hand on her arm, hoping to draw her attention from the boys. When she did at last turn to her, Lily whispered, “Was Michael all right?”

Doe shrugged. “He seemed...irritable, I don’t know. He was tired, probably. Maybe I shouldn’t have seen him, maybe he wanted a proper friend—”

“Doe, darling, _please_. You’re a proper friend. I’m sure he appreciated having you there.” 

She only shook her head, setting aside the _Prophet_ and ladling herself some soup. “It’s so bloody awful, Lily. I—” She shook her head once more. “I just feel like I have to do something. Only, I don’t know what I _can_ do, short of shaking the truth out of Olivia Nott.”

Lily bit her lip. She did not disagree...except that she had been trying to do something for weeks now, via James, and she wasn’t certain it had done any good either. For a moment she considered telling Doe her suspicions about the secret room. But there was no point in having another person frustrated by their helplessness, was there? No, when she or James knew what was going on _then_ she would tell Dorcas, and maybe that would take the teachers one step closer to knowing who’d done it all.

In any case it couldn’t have been Olivia Nott this time. The girl had been sent packing to serve her suspension only days after Gerard McIlhenny’s attack. Lily wondered if the school would walk back her suspension, or if the assumption was that this was a copycat — or a companion — at work.

“The teachers must have some idea,” she said lamely.

Doe ignored this halfhearted comment. “Anyway, I heard Michael’s Ravenclaw mates went to visit him over the weekend, so he had that, at least. But I can’t imagine being Lottie right now.”

Lily’s mind had drifted back to the room and how to enter it; this remark jerked her back to the present.

“Lottie? As in, Fenwick?”

Doe nodded. “Our year, Ravenclaw. She and McIlhenny started going out only last month, and then he got attacked. Michael said she was so excited about it too, wouldn’t stop talking about him. He was going back after seeing her that night. That’s why she’s been so cut up about it all—”

There was something there. Lily frowned, trying to puzzle it out in her head. But she could not find a neat little hole to fit it in… This detail would simply have to sit in the back of her mind until she knew why it struck her as relevant. She murmured something in sympathy, and turned back to buttering her roll. Maybe if she sat down and wrote everything out… Severus and Thalia Greengrass patrolling, Gerard McIlhenny on his way back from Ravenclaw Tower, someone waiting for him… The moment she thought she had it, though, it slipped out of reach.

Lily looked up, searching for the Marauders. Perhaps James knew something. But they were gone, all four of them, as if they’d never been there at all. She frowned. If they were planning a prank, it seemed like poor timing. The whole castle was on edge. Then again, maybe people needed something to laugh about. _She’d_ certainly been happy to laugh at Peter doing a jig with leprechauns last weekend. All while Michael Meadowes was being cursed in the corridor. Who was next? They had only hurt older students thus far, but how long until some poor eleven-year-old caught the attacker’s attention? Just the thought made Lily queasy. She set down her uneaten roll.

“Are you all right?” Doe said.

“Fine — I think. Not very hungry.” But she had missed breakfast, and so she couldn’t skip lunch. Lily picked up the roll again.

Doe’s expression twisted into sympathy. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I stress you out? I shouldn’t have gone on, I — I did it with Mary too, and—”

Lily shook her head quickly. Her friend was on the verge of tears.

“No, no, it’s not you. And you know…” She lowered her voice. “It wasn’t you with Mary either. I mean, she _found_ Michael. Of course she’s frightened. And she knows you’re worried for her. That’s all.”

Doe nodded, apparently mollified by this. 

“I don’t fancy sitting here anymore,” Lily confessed. “I feel as though everyone’s talking about what happened.”

“Common room?”

“I should go fill out some point deductions, actually — but you can come with me if you like?”

This was a mutually beneficial suggestion: Lily did not want Doe to dwell on what had happened to Michael, and Doe did not want Lily wandering the castle on her own. The girls bundled rolls into napkins and left the Great Hall. The nearest prefect office was, in fact, the Head Office; Lily couldn’t fill out any forms there unless Colin or Marissa was inside. But on impulse she went that direction anyway, biting into one of her rolls.

“So,” Doe said slowly, “Dex.”

Lily sighed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You’ve been saying that for weeks, Lily.”

She had, of course she had — although, she’d confided in Germaine, hadn’t she? In the days that had passed she’d felt quite confident in her decision. Dex had respected her space, but they smiled at each other in the corridors and had on one occasion held a lengthy conversation in the library aisle about magical water plants. It was mundane, yes, but it was friendly. It was normal. It seemed now that the pressure was off, they could get along just fine. Lily wasn’t certain what that boded for her proposition — being serious about each other — but she thought she remained willing to try. 

There was something about firsts, Mary had once informed them, in the context of her first snog (a boy from home, who was still in love with her), her first shag (a different boy from home, who was still in love with her), and her first I-love-you (well, the first time it’d been said _to_ her, by a third boy from home, who was...you get the idea). Lily hadn’t been sure if she ought to put stock in that, but at least while she was _in_ her first she thought Mary might have known a thing or two after all. She wasn’t yet ready to let go of the summery happiness Dex brought her. And, well, dramatic as the consequences had been, she didn’t think having sex with him had been a _wholly_ bad decision either. Perhaps a choice made too soon. But...not a bad decision, all things considered. 

“I suppose this makes another week when I’ll say it,” Lily said, not entirely without humour. “I’m sorry, Doe, I’m just — talked out, I suppose.”

Doe arched an eyebrow. “I can’t see how, since you never seem to want to discuss what’s going on. But — all right, I trust you’re talking to someone.”

Lily swallowed and smiled. Suddenly it seemed as though the teetering reality of her life had only been momentarily steadied. Another little mishap and it would all come tumbling down… She shook that away, surprised by the bout of pessimism. It wasn’t like her to expect the worst.

The door to the Head Office was ajar; Lily was glad for her gamble. She knocked, and both Colin and Marissa called, “Come in!”

Dorcas whispered “ _Oooh_ ” as they entered, and Lily smothered a laugh.

The two offices the prefects used — one at either end of the castle — were rather mundane. They didn’t look much different from unused classrooms. But the Head Office was well-lit and cosy, with rows of perfectly organised shelves and files and records kept by previous head students, apparently going back years. Her heart stuttered when she entered it still, as it had since she’d been a newly-minted prefect at fifteen. Colin and Marissa were seated at the round table, poring over what looked like a report.

“Sorry, just got deduction forms to—” Lily began.

“Don’t worry about it,” Marissa said, smiling at them both.

Some of Lily’s enthusiasm must have been clear on her face, because Doe was grinning.

“Can’t wait until this office is yours, can you?” she said, voice low.

Lily flushed. “There’s no — I mean, it’s not _certainly_ going to be mine. Emmeline Vance, Amelia Bones.” She shrugged. “Either of them would make a good Head Girl.” She meant it. They were both talented students, of course, and Emmeline played Quidditch, and Amelia had a sort of inherent authority that only rude people called bossiness. She’d have been happy to lose the post to either of them.

Doe was rolling her eyes now. “Yeah, _okay_. I’m only surprised your false modesty bit didn’t include Thalia Greengrass as well.”

Lily suppressed a laugh. “Had to keep it believable.”

“The only question is, who’ll be your Crollins?” Doe whispered.

Lily’s eyes went wide, but the Head Boy hadn’t seemed to have heard. She busied herself with the point deduction form for a while, while Doe suppressed laughter behind a book. 

“Bertram Aubrey?” Doe said.

Lily made a face. “He _would_ be my Cro—” She coughed before she could finish the sentence, glancing nervously at the Heads. Dorcas was very poorly swallowing her laughter.

“—have the Hufflepuff fifth years with Filch four weeks from now?” Colin was saying in an undertone to Marissa.

“No, Filch is tonight, remember, so it’s three from now—” 

Lily gave Doe a warning look. “It isn’t worth speculating about, because I don’t know that it’s going to happen.”

“All right, I’ll back off. But I’m going to have this conversation with you again in August, I’ll have you know.”

She forced herself to put the thought entirely out of her mind. She shouldn’t get her hopes up already — and as for the worrying question of who her partner would be, well. That was a problem for a future Lily. 

* * *

_ii. Smoke and Mirrors_

“Polishing with no magic.” James held up the rag the prefect had given him. “What a classic punishment.”

“Sorry,” Annie Markham said, sounding like she really meant it. “Filch’s been in a terrible mood lately. I swear he’s more bothered by the vandalism part of these attacks than anything.”

He snorted, mostly to himself. “If he’s this off his game no wonder he hasn’t caught the attacker.” 

That is to say, James didn’t think he deserved this detention, on a technicality. There were certain times of the year when Filch gained an anti-Marauder sense, if you will: late October, late February, mid-May, just before the boys’ birthdays. Now, he had _a_ sense, not a keen one. The caretaker hoped to pinpoint the Marauders’ mischief before it happened. This would have been difficult for even a more skilled adversary than Filch, and if one was to keep score — as both he and the Marauders did — one would know he was on the losing end of the war.

But whether or not all this was _fair_ was irrelevant. On that February day, James Potter — and Peter Pettigrew — were going to learn a great deal about cause and distant effect, action and consequence. Or, as James would think of it later, _the cool shit you did that came back to bite you in the arse_. 

Because if the Marauders didn’t believe in loyalty, then they would not have decided, at the end of their fourth year, to become Animagi and help Remus Lupin through his...health condition. If the Marauders hadn’t failed spectacularly at the Animagus process over the summer hols, they wouldn’t have had to try again during the school term. If they hadn’t been trying to avoid McGonagall’s notice — because if anyone would catch them at it, it would be their eagle-eyed head of house, already suspicious by how quiet and secretive they were being — then they would not have had to think up a distraction prank. The distraction in question concerned Filch’s filing cabinet, in which he meticulously stored his reports on students’ wrongdoings. 

Inspired by a Transfiguration lesson gone wrong, the boys performed an incomplete spell on the cabinet to, in effect, convince the thing that it was actually a teakettle. When Filch least expected it, James would slip hot water and tea leaves into the cabinet from under the Cloak’s cover, and watch it screech and jabber. A simple charm gave the cabinet motion, and so it shrieked up and down the castle corridors, on one occasion getting all the way to the fifth floor before Filch recaptured it.

Now, one could argue that this distraction did not need to be as elaborate and detailed as it was. But the Marauders did have a flair for dramatics. Besides, they had to convincingly suggest that the cabinet was the only trick they were playing, so that McGonagall did not realise their oddly thick speech was the result of carrying Mandrake leaves in their mouths. Why did they custom-order Delphine Delacroix’s Sinful Aphrodisiac Tea Leaves for the Amorously-Minded Diviner by owl, you ask?

Well, Filch hated tea. And the dried tea leaves made rude shapes sometimes.

It was partly the detail and dedication of this prank that persuaded Filch to (quite correctly) assume the Marauders were behind it. But he could never find proof. These were the days before the Marauder’s Map, when the boys had memorised patrol schedules and hoped for the best. On several nights James only narrowly escaped the caretaker, which he counted as more successful _for_ how thrilling they were. On one of these nights, he was locked in a broom cupboard and avoided Filch’s wrath only by the grace of a certain sixth year Ravenclaw prefect. But you already know that story.

In any case, Filch could not bring anything but vague suspicion to McGonagall, and so the Marauders got away with it. His files smelled vaguely of tea for months thereafter. And once the boys completed the Animagus process, the cabinet mysteriously stopped screaming. They eventually forgot what they’d done. They forgot, even, to undo the spell. Filch did not forget, and was so in a sulk with the deputy headmistress that he was too prideful to ask that she fix his cabinet for him.

He received a potent reminder in the week after Michael Meadowes was attacked. One James Potter had crept into his office, guessing that Filch might have written up a report about both attacks. Perhaps the second one would connect Severus Snape to the crime too… never mind that James recalled seeing Snape in the Three Broomsticks on the day of the second attack. He found no evidence of that sort; the report was unfinished, and Filch had spent more time speculating on the nature of the vandalism than the spells involved in the attack.

But he did learn Filch had been patrolling in the vicinity of Ravenclaw Tower on the night Gerard McIlhenny was attacked. And on the day Michael Meadowes was hurt, Filch had been the one guarding the west wing’s sixth floor. The culprits depended, then, on Filch’s relative incompetence. And they knew to strike when and where he was around. That indicated a certain knowledge that might implicate a prefect. It wasn’t the smoking wand he’d hoped for, but it was something.

With satisfaction, James had replaced the file and made to leave the office. But he noticed, then, that one specific filing cabinet bore a little sign that read _no hot water_. The effect the sign had on him was profound and immediate. It was a bit of a character flaw, really, one of the few James would openly admit to. Requests like _do not touch_ , _no entry_ , and _authorised personnel only_ evoked in him the powerful urge to disobey. (A particular favourite was _trespassers will be prosecuted_. It warmed his heart.) So of course, when he saw the sign that said _no hot water_ , he opened a drawer, muttered a spell, and filled it with hot water. 

No sooner had he slammed the drawer shut than the cabinet let out an ear-splitting whistle. “Fuck,” James whispered, stifling laughter and legging it right out of the office. Armed now with the map, he was able to evade all patrollers and safely return to Gryffindor Tower, where he reminded the boys of the teakettle cabinet to much laughter.

Filch was most displeased to see the return of his cabinet’s screeching tendencies. He remembered now how his complaints had been unfairly dismissed — how those pesky boys had got away with their mischief — how his files _smelled like tea_ , and still did with the application of hot water, even though they were bespelled to be impervious to water damage. He renewed his investigation into the prank, and finally, he achieved a breakthrough.

Because the boys had made the mistake of leaving the label to Delphine Delacroix’s Sinful Aphrodisiac Tea Leaves for the Amorously-Minded Diviner in Filch’s office a year before, so that the caretaker would know what sort of tea they were using. (“In case he wants to order some himself,” Sirius had said, laughing.) And though the mail order service had been terribly slow to answer Filch’s inquiry, he learned in November of 1976 that the deliveries had been made to the Hogsmeade post office, a box owned by one Humbert Northrop Anglesby. Certainly an alias, he thought. A dead end, perhaps, and so he had let the matter rest for some months. 

But just then, in February of 1977, having just quieted down his rogue filing cabinet _again_ , Filch was motivated to unmask Humbert Northrop Anglesby. Copious combing through his (tea-scented) files revealed a Dungbomb order, confiscated in April 1974, from the possession of James Potter but _addressed_ to Humbert Northrop Anglesby. It was no wonder Filch hadn’t put the facts together earlier. James’s file was the size of a hefty reference book.

But here it was: the connection. James Potter was Humbert Northrop Anglesby, therefore James Potter had ordered the tea left in his teakettle cabinet, therefore James Potter knew, at the very least, that Filch’s cabinet had been badly Transfigured, therefore! James Potter could plausibly be accused of organising the whole thing. The caretaker had happily slapped James with a detention for that Monday evening, forcing him to reschedule Quidditch practice so that he might polish shields — some of which still bore Lily’s name — in the trophy room.

You might think that this was a fair ending, then, to the whole story of Filch and the teakettle cabinet. James would disagree. He considered that battle closed and won — by the Marauders. Filch coming back and giving him detention for a year-old prank seemed like a violation of the rules of engagement. Actions had consequences, but James didn’t like this one, not one bit. 

Of course, if Filch _hadn’t_ solved the mystery and given him a detention, then that night would have gone very differently indeed. That, however, is getting ahead of ourselves.

“If he’s this off his game no wonder he hasn’t caught the attacker,” James said presently, swiping at a dusty award for services to the school. Considering how often Filch doled out this particular punishment, the trophies really ought to be cleaner.

Annie Markham, the seventh year Hufflepuff prefect, made a noncommittal sound. She too was examining a trophy.

“Was this you lot?” She pointed at a plaque, which congratulated Lily on her Exploding Snap victory.

James grinned. The Protean Charm persisted, it seemed. Whoever had undid it had done a half-arsed job. Very possibly Flitwick had left a few there out of respect for them.

“It was,” he said. “If we’d had it my way, it’d be my name up there, but someone cheated at Exploding Snap, so—” He shrugged.

“You don’t still fancy her, do you?” There was an uncharacteristic suspicion in Annie’s expression. 

James did not know her well, but he hadn’t expected _this._ “No,” he said, casually and not too quickly.

“Okay. Because Marissa’s my friend, you know.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “You don’t have to do the protective mates thing. Marissa’s a big girl, and it’s not as though we’re getting married tomorrow.” 

In retrospect, that was a bit Sirius of him to say. He did like Marissa Beasley, and did not want to hurt her. But he also knew this was a fun sort of thing for them both. That it was rather like being caught in a broom cupboard with Filch round the corner, and putting your finger to your lips, and having the pretty girl who’d caught you smile back and keep your secret, again and again. 

Annie frowned at him, apparently not appeased. “All right.”

Silence fell, and James turned his attention to a huge trophy awarded to some bird who’d led the Slytherin Quidditch team in 1892. Annie wasn’t watching him very closely. James fished out his wand, executed another Protean Charm, and changed the trophy to read _for avant-garde clownery on broomsticks_. Then he amused himself for a minute imagining what that would look like. Then he realised he was wasting a valuable source of information in Annie Markham, who was a prefect and also a—

“Hufflepuff,” James said aloud. Annie frowned. “You’re a Hufflepuff.”

She laughed a little. “Well spotted, Potter.”

He pushed the altered trophy out of sight so that she would not deduct points from him. “I mean, you’re a Hufflepuff, so you must know Gerry McIlhenny.”

Her smile faded. “I do, yeah. Nice bloke, Gerry. Not too chatty — to be honest, I didn’t even know he was Muggle-born. I don't think many students in his year knew either.”

That took James by surprise. The Muggleborns he knew well — Lily and Mary — seemed quite public with their blood status. Or perhaps that was because both had been targets of vitriol from blood purists, so it would be impossible _not_ to know… Which had come first? No, Lily often spoke of her non-magical family, and Mary had explained some Muggle nursery rhyme to him — it had gone way over his head, but he didn’t tell her that…

Even Michael Meadowes, he’d known was Muggle-born, because the Ravenclaw had begun explaining the rules of football during one impossibly boring Quidditch match in their fifth year — a Hufflepuff versus Slytherin snoozefest, that one, McGonagall hadn’t even stopped him. 

So if Gerard McIlhenny wasn’t so open about his blood status, how had the attackers known to target him?

“You don’t say,” James said, watching Annie closely. “It seemed pretty planned, though. What happened to him.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. I suppose that Nott girl had to have had help.”

“Oh, yeah?” He wanted to hear her theories on the matter, and see where they fit into the picture he’d half-assembled. If Sirius was right and the curse they’d used _was_ Snape’s curse — well, they’d guessed it was Snape’s curse, which was a lot of guessing… 

“Yeah. He was Stunned first, but the stunner didn’t come from her wand.”

James wheeled around to face her. “Did they check the prefects’ wands?” he said urgently.

Annie blinked, taken aback by the shift in tone. “Did they — who?”

“The prefects who found him. Snape and Greengrass, d’you know if they checked their wands?” He couldn’t remember what Filch’s stupid report had said on the subject — which meant that the caretaker had probably not noted this detail at all.

“I don’t imagine why they would? They were the ones who saved him, after all. Any longer and he might’ve bled out.”

James sighed, defeated once more. Of course playing the heroes would have put Snape and Greengrass above suspicion, never mind that they’d been at the right place at the right time to carry out the attack themselves. 

“Was Michael Meadowes Stunned, do you know?” 

Annie shrugged. “I don’t know the details. If you’re so curious, you should ask Marissa. I think she said she and Crollins wrote a report about both attacks for Dumbledore…”

He felt very foolish indeed. He had been on a date with the Head Girl, and had a few happy broom cupboard excursions with her in the past few weeks, and had not once thought to ask _her_ what she knew about the attacks. Those two parts of his life had felt separate: the one trying to ignore Lily Evans, the other trying to piece together what was going on at Hogwarts. Of course, given that Lily Evans was trying to piece together what was going on at Hogwarts, this had always been a doomed quest.

He turned away from Annie and fished out the Marauder’s Map. It was after dinner but not yet near curfew, and Marissa Beasley was in Ravenclaw Tower. There were seventeen minutes left in his detention. 

James suffered through another row of trophies, charming some of the names into innuendoes just because he could. Finally, Annie let him go; they strode out of the Trophy Room only to find that they were now on the third floor. Annie brightened. “Shortens my walk back.”

She started down the staircase. James went up. If one was headed to the Hufflepuff common room from a higher floor, the room’s movement would have indeed constituted a shortcut. Except the room was unpredictable, and the only reason they knew it had moved at all on the day McIlhenny was attacked was because of Peeves. But presumably Peeves hadn’t seen McIlhenny or his attackers…

He stopped short. Why did the Trophy Room matter anyway? What the fuck would McIlhenny want with rows of dusty shit on a Saturday evening? It all seemed useless… You wouldn’t need to keep watch on either side of the Trophy Room if you just knew where McIlhenny was coming from and followed him. The armour gallery presented many hiding places for an ambush.

No, the only one who cared about the Trophy Room was...Filch, who’d been patrolling this part of the castle, and had been so insistent that the attackers had come through there — because _he’d_ been caught by the moving room as it bounced between floors, and was too embarrassed to admit that it had delayed his finding McIlhenny. Just as he’d been too embarrassed to get McGonagall to fix his cabinet, or Flitwick to change back all the trophies. 

James continued walking, still frowning to himself. It was _a_ piece, but it was still conjecture, and it was still not the most important detail. If he considered the Trophy Room irrelevant, then he’d only need to know where McIlhenny had come from to know who’d followed him. He climbed the spiral staircase to the Ravenclaw common room and came face to face with the eagle door-knocker.

“What makes a man?” it said when he’d knocked.

Ah, fuck. “His parents?” James said hopefully. It was the first glib thought that came to mind.

The door swung open. He thanked every higher power he could think of that the door had a sense of humour.

Marissa was hunched over a desk, her classmates around her, poring over an essay. James approached, feeling quite awkward. He hadn’t thought through how it would like, him barging in to see her. But there was no use overthinking it now.

“Er, hi, Marissa,” he said.

She jumped a little, sitting up. “James? What are you doing here?” One of her friends tittered.

“I had a quick question—” He pulled up an empty chair and sat down, lowering his voice. “D’you know if Michael Meadowes was Stunned before he was cursed?”

She blinked, then smiled. “Save the preamble, why don’t you?” But she set her quill down. “I shouldn’t be telling you this—”

“But you will.”

A brief smile. “He wasn’t. The Aurors said it was quite sloppy, really… They’d been only a few corridors away. Mind you, they didn’t see anyone running off, but they could have caught them.” Marissa gave an unhappy sigh. “I wish the attacker had been a bit more careless.”

James nodded. “Yeah — I reckon everyone does.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just trying to think some things out.” She still looked curious, so he stood. “Sorry to bother you — I’ll see you around.”

He bade her goodbye and started back for Gryffindor Tower, mind whirling. So the attacks had gone from a confusing, well-planned scheme, complete with a scapegoat, to a mess that the culprit had only just escaped. He might have said they were done by different people, except that the messages were of a similar nature and there was the Filch link. But perhaps… James thought back to the Slytherins he’d seen in the Three Broomsticks the day Michael had been attacked. Snape, Greengrass, Rosier, but no Mulciber, Avery, or Selwyn. If anyone was sloppy, it would be those buffoons.

His feet took him towards the seventh floor corridor with the tapestry. He could have another crack at the room, he thought, try and see if he could figure out how it worked before bed. James did not expect to succeed, at this point, but he would rather have frustrated himself trying.

He rounded the corner and found that someone had beat him to it: Lily was staring at the wall, frowning, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

“Come to solve a mystery?” he called out to her.

She looked at him, still frowning. “Severus told me to avoid this corridor. He said Rosier knew — maybe he knew how to get into the room?”

“Save the preamble, why don’t you?” James said, sauntering up beside her. “I reckon Rosier helped get McIlhenny, by the way.” He wasn’t sure why he’d shared his suspicions with her and not Marissa. But if McIlhenny had been roaming that end of the castle after dinner, well, Rosier _lived_ there. “Only question is how Rosier knew he was Muggle-born.”

Just as he’d taken her random statement in stride, she did not remark on this trading of theories. In fact, her eyes went wide.

“Lottie Fenwick is dating Gerry McIlhenny,” Lily said. “She — she couldn’t stop talking about him in the common room, in the _Ravenclaw_ common room, and Rosier’s—”

“A Ravenclaw,” James finished. 

“And he was coming back from seeing her! So he could’ve been followed, and—”

“Attacked in the armour gallery by Olivia Nott?”

Lily grew uncertain. “I don’t know.”

James reined in his impatience. “C’mon. Snape and Greengrass just happened to be patrolling there?”

“I really don’t know, James—”

He all but threw up his hands in frustration. “Christ, Evans! It’s his spell, d’you know that? The curse?”

“How do you know?” She was not defensive, he noticed, but worried. 

“He’s the one who invented a horde of Dark spells—”

“Right, like your favourite _Levicorpus_ —”

“ _Why_ are you arguing with me on _his_ behalf — maybe he mentioned it to you, because you’re such great pals, _Sectumsempra_ —”

“What?” Now Lily was definitely fearful. 

James stopped short. “You know it. You _do_ —”

“I don’t know what it does, I — I might have seen it in his notes somewhere—”

“Then how can you defend him?” His voice had risen in volume until it echoed through the corridor.

Her shout was louder still. “Because I don’t want it to be true!”

Silence.

“I _don’t_ want it to be true, and I don’t expect you to understand — don’t expect you to know what it’s like, having someone you knew so well become so _unfamiliar_ to you all of a sudden—” She sounded near tears; she turned away from him.

James bit back something cutting. Instead he said, “Friends make mistakes, yeah. Mine have made them too. But you can’t stop them from facing consequences for — for real shit.” He thought of Sirius and Snape and Remus’s wolf form. Those consequences lingered. “That’s their lot.”

Lily’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t understand. Was there something I should have done?”

“You can’t save everyone,” he reminded her. “You can’t.”

“Maybe,” she mumbled, a defeated little admission, swiping at her eyes.

On impulse, he put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into an awkward sideways hug. She did not push him away. On the contrary. She let out a sigh and wrapped her arms around his waist, and he could feel the dampness of her tears through his shirt. For a moment he didn’t think. Then she was stepping away, looking very embarrassed and drying her cheeks.

“We ought to tell McGonagall,” she said at last, and he realised he was watching her perhaps too closely.

He shook his head. “Are you mad? What would we say? ‘Oh, Professor, it’s Alec Rosier, on account of Lottie Fenwick talking up her new boyfriend in the common room and Severus Snape saying he knows something about a secret room?’ She’d laugh us out of her office.”

“Then Edgar Bones—”

“ _Please_ , Evans, they need to be caught in the act.”

She froze. “The act of—”

“Not the act of attacking a Muggleborn, maybe, but someone needs to overhear their plans. The plans they quite possibly make in this room.” He pointed at the bare wall. “Except if they meet in the Slytherin common room—”

“They don’t. Remember? Because Rosier isn’t a Slytherin, and they used a classroom to practice magic in…” The misery on Lily’s face had given way to thoughtfulness, though her cheeks were still pink from crying.

“I suppose Snape shares the patrol schedules so they know when not to meet,” James said, scuffing his toe against the floor. 

She’d gone still again. “Filch is patrolling tonight. Filch was patrolling on—”

“—the night McIlhenny was hurt. _And_ the day Meadowes was. Blimey, you should’ve said about Filch at the start—” He needed to check the map. He needed to get his mates, who would help him ensnare the attackers once and for all—

Lily seized his arm. “You’re planning something stupid, aren’t you? Don’t you dare.”

He shook her off. “If you didn’t want me to _do_ something, you wouldn’t have mentioned Filch. You wouldn’t have come to me about the room. Aren’t I right?”

She grabbed him once more. “Don’t be thick. They’re using dangerous magic on people, and don’t think your blood status means they won’t hurt you—”

“They won’t hurt me, Evans. But I’m glad you care.” The joke was halfhearted; he was already starting towards the Fat Lady, his mind on the night ahead.

“James!” she shouted after him. He did not slow.

Lily was left alone in the corridor, debating what to do next. She could have followed James, and perhaps forcibly restrained him. But she found herself in two minds over the whole thing. What if the Marauders _did_ stop the attacker, and no one else got hurt? No more nervously walking in twos, no more jumpy patrolling, no more tossing and turning.

She was standing there, still thinking, when Doe sidled up to her.

“When were you going to tell me all of that?” she said quietly. “The secret room, or whatever it is, and Filch patrolling, and that you and James have clearly been discussing it?”

Lily sighed. “I didn’t want—”

“Me to do something I’d regret? But Potter and his friends can?” Doe shook her head. “Come on, we’re going with them tonight.”

She met her friend’s gaze, alarmed. “You’re not serious? Doe, we’ll—”

Dorcas grabbed Lily’s wrist and began pulling her to the portrait hole. “I don’t _care_ if we get in trouble. I’m the fastest draw in our Defence class and I’m sick of seeing bigots get away with _bullshit_.”

Maybe this was the compromise, she told herself. She could not in good conscience let the boys go off on their own...but she could help.

* * *

_iii. Helter Skelter_

As the common room emptied after curfew, Doe and Lily lingered in two armchairs, close to the windows to avoid notice. They needn’t have worried. It was a weekday, and the mood was sombre in Gryffindor Tower. No one seemed to want to stay up, even for a game of Wizard’s Chess. The girls were the only two people in the room when the Marauders trooped downstairs, heads close together.

“All four of you?” Lily said before she could stop herself. “All four of you are going to — risk yourselves by running about—”

James turned towards her, face set in grim determination. “We need four people, thanks. It’s the Aurors on patrol tonight.”

She frowned, too confused to argue. “No, it’s — it’s Filch. I heard Marissa and Crollins say so.” She looked at Doe, and the other girl nodded agreement.

“Well, maybe the Aurors aren’t idiots and noticed the attack patterns too,” James said, shrugging. “So they’ll randomly join patrols on nights you expect Filch.”

“I don’t understand. How do you _know_?”

The boys exchanged glances and seemed to come to some silent agreement.

“If we tell, will you let us go?” Sirius said.

“No,” said Doe. “We want to come too.”

This startled the Marauders visibly. 

“Well, it’s not going to be—” Remus began.

Doe scoffed. “Easy? You know I could take any of you in a fight. Don’t waste our time. Right, Lily?”

After a split second, James said, “Fine. As long as you do what _we_ say. We’re the ones who know our way around the castle at night.”

“Fine,” the girls said together.

Peter and Remus left first, the latter bearing a Disillusionment Charm. (“Why doesn’t Peter need one?” Doe said. This question had been summarily ignored.) A brief, quiet debate ensued between James and Sirius, but finally Lily was presented with a cloth bundle.

“You’re smaller anyway,” James said, which explained nothing. “Both of you will fit under it.”

“Fit under what?” Doe said.

Lily shook out the cloth, recognising it for the supple cloak he’d given her to rest her head on during their journey back to the castle. Dubiously, she wrapped it around herself; the material dragged on the ground a little. Dorcas let out a muffled scream.

“What?”

But it was quite apparent _what_. From the neck down, Lily was invisible. She looked at James and Sirius, jaw dropping.

“How long have you had this?” she said.

Sirius made a noise of impatience. “Questions later, Evans.” He cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself and then James; the portrait hole swung open. Lily could do nothing but pull Doe under the Cloak with her, and follow.

The details of the plan had been briefly explained to Lily and Dorcas. Had the night ended differently, Lily might have walked away with a profound appreciation for the Marauders’ thoroughness. (But it did not, so the feelings she felt were quite different.) 

Remus, bearing a mirror of some import — they’d been vague on this detail — was headed via shortcut to the east end of the castle. Ethelbert Fawley was patrolling the vicinity of the Trophy Room, now on the third floor. He was two floors down from the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room, but that was too close for comfort. Fawley needed to be thoroughly distracted so that Alec Rosier would leave Ravenclaw Tower unseen. (The seventh year lingered in his common room, according to _the map_ , which James had shown Lily and Doe.) 

Remus’s distraction of choice was fairly complicated magic, and so he set off with both a sense of duty and a slight flicker of excitement. He would never have admitted it, of course, save perhaps to his friends in a moment of weakness. He was in the armour gallery after a twenty-minute sprint. 

Winded, he ducked behind a suit of armour and pulled out his wand. Frowning in concentration and muttering a spell, Remus watched as one suit of armour, then another, then another peeled away from the wall, and began walking, with all the stiffness of mummies, away from Ravenclaw Tower. They made a terrific racket, so Remus didn’t even have to worry about quieting his footsteps. He merely followed, like a reverse Pied Piper, and waited for Fawley to come after him.

Peter took a different shortcut to the castle kitchens. Edgar Bones and Frank Longbottom were sweeping through the dungeons and kitchen level, and needed to be drawn away quietly and efficiently so that the Slytherin contingent would not know the patrols had changed. By lucky chance, Snape and Mulciber — for they were the two who’d left first — had done so without Peter’s intercession. They were safely on the second floor by the time Bones and Longbottom returned to the dungeons. 

James watched on the map as Sebastian Selwyn and Anthony Avery paused in a corridor round the corner from the Aurors, and scuttled back to their common room. The numbers had winnowed down. 

Peter, hiding in the kitchens, transformed back into his human form and paced the quiet hall. He could not animate suits of armour like Remus, and momentarily lamented his passable Transfiguration skills. But he had a sack of Dungbombs, courtesy of James and Sirius’s Christmas shopping, and sometimes simple plans worked best.

Having confirmed their targets were moving, James, Sirius, Dorcas, and Lily waited on the seventh floor. They were round the corner from the Betty Braithwaite cupboard, as Sirius insisted on referring to it. They would wait until Rosier arrived to open the room, then slip in behind him unseen. And then they would be eyewitnesses to whatever they discussed. 

Lily found herself hoping against all hope that it was a knitting circle, or something similar. Her heart still lurched at the thought of Severus’s involvement in all this. _You can’t save everyone_ , James had said, and maybe he was right, but she wanted to try, and maybe she hadn’t tried hard enough… She searched, automatically, for James before remembering they were both invisible. Doe squeezed her hand briefly.

Rosier, Snape, and Mulciber met up on the fourth floor. They heard some distant clanging, but assumed it was simply Peeves. (It was, in fact, Remus’s suits of armour. He had been directed via the mirror to lead Fawley further downstairs.) Rosier glanced around expectantly.

“Where are Selwyn and Avery?”

Mulciber snorted. “Old Sluggy’s supposed to be patrolling the dungeons, which means he’s sleeping in his office. Maybe he woke up and they had to wait for him to fall asleep again.”

Rosier frowned. “We can’t wait.”

“We don’t have to,” said Snape. “They’ll catch up.”

For a moment Rosier considered the younger boy. Snape had come into his own, planning the McIlhenny attack. He’d been the one to pilfer the patrol schedules and suggest they use the Trophy Room as a cover. Rosier was nothing if not fair. He’d spoken highly of Snape to his brother in exchange. Marius had been at Hogsmeade on an errand the previous weekend; meeting him had helped provide their alibi for the second attack. Yes, perhaps he’d underestimated Snape’s usefulness, what with his infatuation with that Gryffindor girl. Half-blood or no, he was capable.

“Fine,” Rosier said at last. “Let’s go.” He wanted to plan the next one more than he wanted to babysit Selwyn and Avery, after all. 

Peter took refuge in the kitchens once more, having set off some Dungbombs by the Hufflepuff common room. Panting, he braced his hands on his knees. He had to be alert, because if the Aurors came in he’d need to become Wormtail again. But just a minute of rest...

“It’s _you_ ,” a soft voice said, and Peter’s eyes flew open once more.

He managed to bite back a strangled yell. “I’m sorry, I’m not—” 

He broke off. It was only a house elf. Relief washed over him — until the house elf stepped into a puddle of light and and he saw that it was Pansy.

A creepy smile spread across her face. “Hello, young worm.”

Peter’s heart sank. “Er, hi. How are you?”

“Pansy is excellent, young worm, because Pansy soon tells Madam McGonagall about a student out of bed!” She let out a cackle.

“Please don’t,” said Peter quickly. “Look, I’m sorry for all the times we’ve bothered you, I promise we — we aren’t breaking any rules—”

“Oh, no, no, no!” She wagged a long finger. “You promised. You promised Pansy that the next time you were out of bed she could tell. Pansy believes in promises.”

So he had. Peter cursed his own idiocy — or, rather, the idiocy of his September self, thinking the next time he’d have to contend with Pansy he could get away safely. Because there he was, no map, no Cloak, and no mirror, at the whims of a house elf. He could flee, as a rat, and he would probably be safe. But his friends expected him to play his part in tonight’s plan, and running away was not part of the plan. 

“Pansy, I’ll give you — a-anything,” he said, though he couldn’t think of anything he had to offer that she might want. Which of course had been the problem in the first place.

“You already have, young worm.” She Apparated with a crack.

“No!” Peter cried, grabbing the Dungbombs and rushing out of the kitchen. He careened to a halt. He could hear voices right down the hall: Pansy, squeaky and smug, talking about students out of bed with evil plans, Edgar Bones, low and concerned.

Evil plans? What if they thought he, Peter, was going to attack a Muggle-born student? Fear struck his heart. He picked up a Dungbomb and flung it as hard as he could in one direction. And then he ran in another.

“Hang on,” James whispered into the silence, “something’s not right.”

Lily jerked to attention. “What d’you mean?”

“Peter’s on the ground floor now. I think the Aurors are on to him — they’re following.”

Sirius swore. “Why’d he take them out of the kitchens?”

“I dunno—”

“Is it such a bad thing, if they caught Rosier?” Lily whispered.

She could not see James and Sirius, but she imagined they both turned towards her at the question.

“Yeah, because he’d only get in trouble for being out of bed,” said Sirius. “And then they’d know the Aurors are secretly changing the patrols. And then it’d be ages before we caught them doing anything.”

“You have a map showing the locations of everyone in school,” Lily argued. “Surely you could—”

But they weren’t listening to her. “Remus Lupin,” Sirius said, and before Lily could ask what the hell he was doing Remus’s breathless voice filled the corridor.

“Not — a good time!” he said.

“Wormtail needs help,” James said.

“Sorry — Fawley’s better with the suits of armour than I’d expected.”

“Well, he’s good at something, then,” Sirius muttered.

“Sorry!” Remus said again, and his panting cut away.

“One of us should go help Wormtail,” James said.

A brief silence ensued. 

“Lily should go,” Dorcas said.

She started, looking at her friend in reproach. “What? Why me?”

Doe looked entirely unapologetic. “Because you’re the only Muggle-born, and you shouldn’t be trapped in a room with blood purists even if we’re spying on them.”

Lily knew she meant well, but she felt a bubble of resentment at this. “I’m going to be fine, Doe.”

“Nah, I’ll go,” Sirius said. “I know the castle’s shortcuts anyway, and I’ve got a few ideas up my sleeve.”

“Take the Cloak,” said James.

“What? Don’t be ridiculous—”

“You can’t be caught out of bed, and charms can be undone—”

“Prongs, come on—”

“Take it!”

Before Sirius could reply, Lily pulled the Cloak off herself and held it out in the vague direction of his voice. He reappeared with a murmured spell and took it from her with great reluctance, casting Disillusionment Charms on the two girls before he set off. 

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Doe muttered.

“He knows what he’s doing,” James replied, and they fell into silence again.

You see, Sirius Black had a talent for improvisation. Peter had outlandish ideas, James had the technical execution, and Remus had the attention to logistics. Certainly they all had some ability to think on their feet — it would be impossible otherwise to evade Filch, Mrs. Norris, and Slytherins galore as they had for years. 

But Sirius was _the_ improviser among them. It was his idea to involve Peeves in the fourth year Butterbeer pool incident, his detour that had discovered the Dodgy Lodgings, and his well-placed jinx that had brought down a chandelier with Filch on the boys’ heels back in third year. As he slipped into a secret staircase and cut down to the third floor, he was already thinking. 

By the time he’d left, Rosier and Snape and Mulciber had made it to the fifth floor. In minutes they’d be inside the secret room. If he brought the Aurors towards the corridor and not away from it, he and Peter would have the Gryffindor common room to take refuge in. Then, Bones and Longbottom would be in the vicinity when Rosier and his cronies tried to _leave_ the room, so James, Lily, and Doe could shepherd them right to the authorities.

It would take some finagling and some guesswork on his part, with the timing of it all, but he trusted that James would take care of his end. Besides, Sirius was good at the guesswork.

James glanced at the map and cottoned on to Sirius’s plan at once. 

“The Aurors are going to come this way,” he whispered. “We need to get Rosier and his cronies into the room as fast as we can.”

He supposed the girls agreed, but he couldn’t see them. They all fell silent, though, soon after. There were voices at the end of the corridor.

“—can’t believe it,” Mulciber was muttering. “Avery jumped the fucking gun.”

James stiffened. _Say it_ , he willed, _say what you did_. 

But all Rosier said was, “Yes, well. Be more careful next time.”

Well, there would be all the time in the world once they got into the room. James felt the pre-Quidditch tension in his limbs. Just a few steps further…

 _Crack_.

What the fuck? That sounded like Apparition, except that no one could Apparate within the castle—

“More students out of bed?” a squeaky voice said. “Oh yes, oh yes, Madam McGonagall will hear — but _you’re_ not the young worm, are you?”

 _Shit_ , James thought. That voice, he knew. That was fucking _Pansy._

“It’s none of your business what we’re doing,” Rosier said coldly. “Get out.”

Another _crack_. 

“Young worm,” Snape said softly. “That’s Pettigrew. Potter and his friends are sneaking about.”

“Well, they can’t get into the room,” said Mulciber.

A pregnant pause. In the distance, the soft _pop_ of an exploding Dungbomb could be heard. James didn’t have to check the map to know that was Sirius and Peter, and that their time was running out.

“We should split up and go back,” said Rosier. “I don’t want to be trapped inside the room.”

Mulciber scoffed. “You don’t think they know?”

“They have a habit of poking their noses where they’re not wanted,” Snape said. 

James gripped his wand in one pocket, and his last distraction in the other. He shifted one step to the left, bumping up against someone. “We can’t let them leave,” he whispered.

A sharp intake of breath. “Whatever you’re planning—” Lily hissed.

He didn’t know what he was planning. But he knew he had to move fast — he had to somehow provoke one of them into revealing what they were up to, lest they lose their chance...and someone else would get hurt if they did. His indecision hardened into a determined knot.

“Did you hear something?” Mulciber said suddenly. “The house elf again?” 

“ _Homenum revelio_ ,” Rosier muttered. James felt as though a shadow had swooped over them. “There’s someone round the corner. Wands out.”

That settled it. James dispelled the Disillusionment Charm cast on him. “Trust me and don’t move,” he said, and darted into the corridor with a wide grin on his face. “Oops. Caught me snooping, did you?”

Lily reached out to grab James before he could go running headlong into Rosier and the others, but her fingers closed around empty air. She cursed under her breath. On her other side, Doe clamped a hand around her wrist.

“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “We can surprise them.”

But she didn’t want to surprise them. She wanted to go throttle James Potter.

“Oops. Caught me snooping, did you?” he was saying, all bravado. 

Oh, she _really_ wanted to throttle him.

A quiet exclamation, from Mulciber. Then— “ _Expelliarmus_ ,” came Severus’s voice, and the clatter of a wand hitting stone. Lily drew in a breath.

“I’m not here to duel you, relax,” James drawled. “I’m just curious. What’re you lot up to? Planning to Stun another Muggle-born student from behind, curse them, and set up a fourteen-year-old to get suspended for you?”

“What happened to that boy was the work of that Nott girl, Potter,” Rosier replied.

“What about the second boy? You know something about that, Mulciber? I didn’t see you with your mates in Hogsmeade that day.”

“Shut up,” said Mulciber.

Lily made as if to move. Doe held her fast. “ _Wait_.”

“Well, whatever you’re doing, I’ll get proof.” James’s tone was quite pleasant, but Lily found she believed this promise. She could hear the truth of it in his voice. “And you won’t lay a wand on anyone else.”

“Unlikely,” Snape said. “As fascinating as your empty threats are—”

James spoke over him. “What say you, _Cassius_? It’ll take loads of penance when they catch you.”

“Penance,” Mulciber repeated, as if he didn’t quite follow what James meant.

“Yeah, _penance_. You know? Begging for forgiveness? Seems you didn’t learn much from the lesson we taught you, eh?”

She almost laughed — not because anything about the situation was funny, but because James sounded no less confident for the fact that he was unarmed, and one against three. She really, really wanted to throttle him. But Lily didn’t get the chance to reflect on the violent impulses she felt for James any longer. 

Mulciber let out a low growl. “I’ll have _you_ begging, Potter. _Crucio!_ ”

Lily was quite sure she screamed. Everything happened all at once — she remembered it only in fragments afterwards. James yelled. Doe was darting around the corner, shouting, “ _Stupefy!_ ” Something exploded. More strangled yelling. Lily hit the floor forcefully enough to bruise her knees, one hand landing too hard on James’s chest, and he made a weak sound of protest.

Her brain was cycling through stages of panic — it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, the curse, but he looked as though he was struggling to stay awake — Sirius, angrier than she’d ever seen him, and he was saying, “I’ll kill them, I’ll fucking kill them—” and then Edgar Bones was prising Lily away from James and someone was saying, “No no no no, he has to go to the Hospital Wing—”

Oh, that was _her_. That was her. 

“I know, I’ve got him,” Bones was saying.

There was a horrible stench in the air and Peter was waving it away, and Doe and Frank Longbottom were physically restraining Sirius. Mulciber lay still and Stunned. Rosier and Snape had been knocked to the ground by—

“ _A Dungbomb_ ,” Lily said, her voice strangled. She finally stopped resisting Edgar Bones. “He threw a _Dungbomb_ at the boy who _Cruciatused_ him!”

“I’m fine,” James croaked, and Bones left Lily to help him up. “I’m fine, I was only under for a second—”

“Black, get it together, help Bones get him to Pomfrey,” Frank snapped. 

Sirius at last stopped trying to charge Mulciber’s prone body and went to James’s side. Rosier was staring at the stone floor, so obviously in thought that she could almost see the gears in his head turning. Beside him, Severus was looking at her, eyes glittering. 

Doe took her by the arm. “Let’s go — we can get to Pomfrey first, warn her—” And Lily was too grateful to say anything else just yet because her friend had anticipated her question: _what can I do?_ Peter was dispatched to fetch McGonagall. 

As they walked, Lily found herself saying, “I’m angry at you.”

Doe gave her a calm once-over. “If you want to be angry at me for keeping my Muggle-born friend away from a trigger-happy blood purist,” she said coolly, “be my guest.”

If Dorcas had only let her go after James… If she’d only done something to stop it… Doe had thought like an Auror. But they _weren’t_ skilled Dark wizard catchers, they were students, and how stupid could she be, holding Lily back… 

But Lily had done all this in the first place. She’d told James about the room, she’d told him about Filch, she’d let them all break curfew tonight. She was angry because she knew it was _her_ fault.

The next morning both Dorcas and Lily were pulled out of first-period Defence Against the Dark Arts to meet with Professor McGonagall. It was a good thing, Lily thought blearily, because she had spent so much of the previous night tossing and turning that she would surely have fallen asleep in class. 

After they had gone to the Hospital Wing and Pomfrey had given them both something for shock — which both girls tried to protest — James, Sirius, and Edgar Bones had followed. Frank Longbottom and Peter took Mulciber to McGonagall, apparently, with Rosier and Severus in tow. Lily tried, as Pomfrey fussed over a weak but cavalier James, to forget her former friend’s hand in all this. He’d disarmed James — he hadn’t stopped Mulciber — he hadn’t cast the spell but he hadn’t done anything to stop it, that was all Dorcas…

Sirius had come over to them, his face set in fury. “Happy now that your best mate got at him?” he snarled, and Lily realised he was talking to _her_. She didn’t have the energy to respond, but she was saved from doing so.

“Give it a rest, Sirius,” Doe said wearily. “It was Mulciber, not Snape.”

He rounded on her next. “But you let him—”

“Let him?” Doe scoffed. “Instead of pointing fingers at _each other_ —” Lily did not miss her emphasis here “—let’s remember who cast the fucking curse, all right? Besides,” she added, more subdued now, “Mulciber will get what he deserves.”

“We still don’t know,” said Lily suddenly. They both turned to look at her. “We still don’t know if they — if they actually hurt Michael and Gerry McIlhenny—”

“Oh, that’s _rich_ , Evans, you don’t actually think they’re innocent!” said Sirius. Pomfrey hissed at them to stop shouting.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Lily snapped, hating the tears rising to her eyes. “I meant we didn’t get proof.”

“So it was all for nothing.” Sirius rocked back on his heels. 

“Stop acting like James is dead,” Doe interrupted. “Okay? And stop acting like Lily killed him. You’re angry at Mulciber, not us.” She gave him a warning look that made even Lily flinch. “Back. Off.”

Underneath the anger and the guilt, Lily felt a sudden rush of affection for her friend.

“Doe was the one who stopped him,” she whispered. “Look — _I’m sorry_.”

Maybe he hadn’t expected her to apologise. Maybe it was the look on her face or the tremor in her voice. But Sirius went quiet, and sat down on Lily’s other side.

“I’m still fucking pissed,” he said.

“Join the queue,” said Dorcas quietly. 

It took until the next morning for Lily to say the same words to Doe. They’d been brushing their teeth in the bathroom together, jostling elbows. The other girls had still been sleeping, undisturbed by Lily and Doe’s late arrival and early awakening.

Finally Lily muttered, “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” 

Doe said, “Yeah, you shouldn’t’ve.”

“You were doing what you thought was right.”

Their gazes met in the mirror. “I was.”

And though they were a little cool, a little uncertain around each other as they went to breakfast, things between them felt less like fractured ground. _First fight_ , Lily thought dully, spooning porridge into her mouth — she and Doe had never really come into conflict before.

McGonagall had summoned them not long after, and the girls had related last night’s events to their head of house. They left out their motivations for seeking out Rosier, Mulciber, and Snape, figuring that it would only serve to make them look bad. In any case their theories seemed moot now that Mulciber had used an actual Unforgivable Curse. They did not say how Peter, Sirius, or Remus had been involved, despite all three having obviously been out of bed — Doe had recalled the fact that Sirius seemed to be on some kind of probation, and the girls had agreed over breakfast that the Marauders could tell their own version of events. 

To McGonagall’s credit, she did not immediately tell them how extraordinarily stupid they’d been. But after the whole tale had been related, the professor sat back in her seat and fixed each of them with a stern stare.

“You’re sensible girls,” she said briskly. “You don’t need me to tell you what a harebrained scheme that was. Running about in hopes of — what, catching the attacker?”

Lily sat straighter. “How did you—”

“Please, Evans, I know my students, and even the most foolhardy ones—” she gazed heavenward, which the girls took to signify the Marauders and not them “—behave in certain patterns. Well, you will lose twenty points each for your breaking of curfew, but I suppose you are owed thirty points each for what you did.”

“What we — did?” Doe said timidly.

“Mr. Mulciber has confessed to attacking both Mr. McIlhenny and Mr. Meadowes. Apparently he used the Imperius Curse to compel Miss Nott to act on his behalf.” A brief twist of disgust crossed McGonagall’s face. “That’s that.”

“Oh,” said Lily. “But he must have had he—”

“He was acting alone, he says.”

“With all due respect, Professor, do you believe that?” Lily said, with a glance at Doe. 

McGonagall’s lips thinned. “It’s not a question of what I believe, Miss Evans. I expect the headmaster will be able to answer your lingering questions at an address later this week. Now, if you please, I have to collect Mr. and Mrs. Potter from the Entrance Hall.” She stood, and the girls took this to be their dismissal.

As they filed out of the office, Doe whispered, “I have Ancient Runes.”

Lily squeezed her shoulder. “Lunch, after?”

Doe nodded, and was gone. Lily realised she had a free period, but she couldn’t imagine sitting down to get a head start on her homework. Nor could she imagine finding Germaine and Mary and explaining what had happened. She was headed towards the Hospital Wing before she knew it. 

Pomfrey was by the doors; she eyed Lily with suspicion, but allowed her to enter.

“I’m going for two minutes to see the Potters. You are to be quiet and considerate with my patient for _two minutes_ while I am gone,” she said. “And don’t wake the other one.”

Michael Meadowes was still in the Hospital Wing, Lily realised. His bed was behind a partition, across from James’s. She spared a glance for the sleeping Ravenclaw, then sat down in an empty chair by James’s head.

His eyes were closed, his glasses on the bedside table. He looked much younger, asleep. She could see the little indentation in the bridge of his nose left by his glasses, and the fan of his thick eyelashes against his dark skin. A faint scar, marring one side of his upper lip. There was probably a story there — everything about James came with a good story. But the few seconds he was under the Cruciatus would leave no visible marks.

His eyelids fluttered open. He smiled, not the crooked grin Lily was used to but a tired, small one.

“You should see the other bloke,” he said, voice scratchy from sleep.

It took Lily a moment to find her voice. When it arrived, it was tight with anger. She’d thought herself too exhausted for it, but that was not true.

“I can’t believe you,” she whispered. “I can’t believe you — threw yourself at them and let them disarm you, and you told us not to follow so that you could — what, _interrogate_ them? And Doe listened to you because she was worried about _me_ , and then you got yourself _tortured_ , and all you had was a _Dungbomb_ —”

His smile fell away, replaced by a frown. “I didn’t—”

“Why,” she said, the word almost a plea, “did you have to go and play the hero? You’re so selfish—”

He snorted. “I’m selfish? It was selfish of me to get cursed?”

“ _Yes_! It was thoughtless — what if, what if—” Lily struggled to keep her voice even. “What if Mulciber had tried a different Unforgivable? McGonagall would be explaining to your parents that you’d been _killed_ —”

James shook his head slowly. “He wouldn’t have.”

She let out a helpless little laugh. “Do you even believe that yourself? God! You’re so pigheaded and idiotic—” 

She was aware she was doing to him exactly what Sirius had did to her and Doe the previous night, but she didn’t _care_. Every angry word was so much better than _I’m sorry_. So much easier than knowing it was because of her, and maybe she really ought to keep people at arm’s distance, because people were so _breakable_.

If James Potter could be here, in a hospital bed, then anyone could fall. And not everyone could bounce back. Not everyone could bounce back if her foolishness hurt them.

“Excuse me,” he said hotly, now trying to sit up. 

_Good_ , Lily thought savagely. _Fight back_. 

“You heard me!” she said. “I told you this would be stupid—”

“I seem to recall you telling me you wanted to come along—”

“—and I just don’t understand why you would put yourself in harm’s way—”

“Well, if you don’t understand then there’s nothing I can explain to you!” James said, now sounding just as furious as she felt.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Lily.

“I just said I can’t fucking explain, didn’t I?”

She did laugh then, loudly and properly. 

“I know what’s going on here, anyway,” he said. “You feel guilty, so you’re taking it out on—”

“Of _course_ I feel guilty,” she snapped. He fell silent. “It’s my fucking fault, isn’t it?”

He sighed, a long expulsion of breath. “Don’t make this the boohoo Evans show.”

Her jaw dropped; she pushed back her chair. “Fuck off—”

“I’m serious, did you come here to _shout_ at me—”

“I don’t want to hear it—”

“I get it, all right? But I didn’t fucking die, and it’s not like what happened with your dad.” 

His hazel eyes were bright, angry; his jaw was set firm. For the first time in a long time, Lily thought _I hate him_ , but this time it was because she knew he was right. 

“And please don’t cry,” James went on. “It was three seconds under the curse. Pomfrey says I should be fine — no nerve damage or anything, even.”

She wanted to say _I’m not crying_ , but she lifted a hand to her cheeks and found that she was. But it was too much. It was all too much. She was strung tight and certain she would snap like a too-stretched rubber band. Not everyone could bounce back, and maybe she couldn’t either.

She drew in a deep breath and said, “I just—”

“Please,” James said, “ _please_ , Lily, the shouting’s giving me a headache.”

And all the words were sucked right out of her. She wiped away the last of her tears and stood.

“I should go,” she mumbled.

He looked at her for a long, silent moment. “Yeah, probably.”

The Hospital Wing doors opened just then. In strode Madam Pomfrey, McGonagall, and an elderly couple Lily vaguely recognised as the Potters: a slim, elegant Indian woman, her silver-streaked hair in a twist, and a balding, genial white man, with spectacles like his son. 

“Please tell me you haven’t had a shouting match with my patient, Evans,” Pomfrey said drily.

Lily gave a weak laugh. She must have looked a mess: face blotchy and red, eyes still brimming with tears. 

“Nah,” James said, startling her. That was all he said in her defence.

Mrs. Potter’s brows had shot up at the sight of her. “Well, if you give us a minute, dear, you can go back to shouting at him.”

“Oh — oh, no, I was leaving anyway.” She supposed the polite thing to do would be to introduce herself, seeing as how she’d never formally met them before, but she didn’t want to get in their way at a time like this. 

So Lily beat a hasty retreat, slipping out of the infirmary and heading downstairs. But she didn’t want to eat just yet, it was too early for lunch… Her feet took her down the stairs again, past the fruit bowl painting, until she came face to face with the stack of barrels. How often had she done this in the past few months? 

She reached out with her wand, eyes still blurry, and tapped, _Hel-ga Huff-le-puff_. The door opened. Through the passageway, into the bright, plant-lined common room, and there he was, sitting at the same desk as he always did, chewing on his bottom lip and leafing through a textbook. 

She walked towards him, and he looked up. The concentration on his face melted into concern.

“Lily? What’s happened — are you all right?”

Yes. No. She couldn’t say. McGonagall had told them not to share what spell Mulciber had used, and Lily was not about to break that directive. She thought James would tell people whatever he saw fit. Mulciber would probably be expelled — possibly even be tried — and everyone would have guesses then.

But most of all Lily felt so vulnerable, so horribly seen, like something had brushed against a bruise she’d forgotten about. _I didn’t fucking die, and it’s not like what happened with your dad_. Funny how she could suddenly feel ripped open and thirteen again, hearing those words. 

She gripped the edge of the table for support. “I’m sorry — I know I said I, I needed space, and I’m sure you’re busy—”

“Hey, no—” Dex was pulling her to a sofa, sitting her down gently. “Can I get you something? Water?”

She shook her head. “Just a hug. Just — a hug.” He obliged, wrapping his arms around her. Her head settled onto his chest, and she closed her eyes, and she breathed a little easier.

James knew things were bad because of Lily Evans.

Well, to be precise, he knew things were bad because of his parents’ lack of reaction to Lily Evans. They had certainly registered it was her, because he saw his mother arch her eyebrows, but then Lily was gone and the focus was back on him. Pomfrey and McGonagall went into the Healer’s office to give them some privacy.

James sat up, wincing as he did, while his parents sank into chairs by his bed. He hadn’t been lying about the pain — it really had faded, though the memory of it still burned. The weakness in his muscles persisted, but Pomfrey had assured him that too would pass. He bloody well hoped so. Quidditch practice was tomorrow.

“Did she really shout at you?” Euphemia said, having smoothed out her pantsuit. Her tone was perfectly calm, which was how James knew she was angry.

“Er, a bit,” said James, flummoxed. He was in no mood to defend Lily — in fact, he could have quite happily have launched into a list of complaints just then — but it felt wrong, somehow, to badmouth her with his parents agreeing.

But his mother only said, “Good. I hate to yell, and someone had to do it.”

“What the fuck?” James said.

“Language,” said Fleamont, properly glaring.

“Yes, well, what _were_ you thinking?” Euphemia went on. “Gallivanting about trying to catch little demons — oh, don’t give me that look, Fleamont, I’ve met that Cassius Mulciber — didn’t you stop to think you’d get _hurt_?”

He opened his mouth to protest, but truthfully, he hadn’t thought. Not very much had been going through his mind in the moment he walked out into the corridor, except for _stall, James, stall_. And then he’d provoked Mulciber because, well, he was the weak link. Rosier and Snape wouldn’t crack with a few well-placed questions. Mulciber might. 

He had, technically. Only, James had hoped he’d crack and tell them about the attacks, not crack and use an Unforgivable Curse on him. Well, at least the fucker would be in Azkaban soon.

He very nearly pointed out to his parents that he’d taken out a future Death Eater and ought to be thanked. But then, unbidden, Lily’s words came to him instead. _McGonagall would be explaining to your parents that you’d been_ killed… She was right.

She’d come in there to shout at him, which was awfully fucked, and he was already thinking of how he would complain about her saviour-slash-martyr complex (he hadn’t yet decided which sounded worse) to his mates, but Lily Evans had a goddamn point. 

When he looked at his parents he didn’t just see the years of care and warmth and incessant nagging. Nor did he see just this moment, with Euphemia quietly furious and Fleamont quietly disappointed and both of them concerned. He saw the evening of the Christmas party — the Hogsmeade murders — and he saw them as an outsider would. Doting, but aging.

They had, the three of them, always had one another, a harmony he’d taken for granted. It would break them to see him hurt. On some days that meant shouldering his responsibilities without complaint. On other days...that meant _not getting hurt_. 

It was a realisation with the sort of depth that stunned you into silence — even if you were James Potter. Which was why he stayed quiet long enough for Euphemia to finish her controlled lecture. 

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry,” James said. 

Both of them looked surprised.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’ve got some maturity in me.”

“Then you’ll respond maturely when you hear you’re being punished,” Fleamont said after a glance at his wife. 

“I’m — what?” My God, James thought, was this what other people’s parents did to teach them lessons?

“You’re being _punished_ ,” Euphemia enunciated. “Professor McGonagall is overseeing your detentions for two weeks once you’re out of the infirmary, you’ve lost forty points for your house—”

“ _Forty_?” Oh, he would be having words with McGonagall on that subject. 

“—and Quidditch practice will go on without you for as long as you’re in detention.”

His jaw came unhinged. “Mum, that’s bloody unfair. That’s — I’m the captain, they can’t practise without me! You’re acting like I’m the one who cast the curse.”

“Oh, no, James, if you’d cast the curse you’d have been expelled and slapped with a disciplinary hearing, and you’d never again go beyond the four walls of our home,” Euphemia snapped. 

Pomfrey coughed politely. Euphemia took a moment to gather herself. 

“And you’re coming home for Easter. I don’t care if your friends come too, God knows you get up to too much nonsense in the castle.”

Aghast, James looked to his father for sympathy. Fleamont shook his head infinitesimally. 

“I’ll start acting out if you place restrictions upon me,” he said, mostly as a joke. The expressions on his parents’ faces told him they did not think this was the time or place. “Come on, if I’m joking it means I’m fine.”

Fleamont squeezed his shoulder. “You frightened us,” he said, his voice low. 

James swallowed his many other complaints. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I really am.” He saw the tension in his mother’s shoulders ease ever so slightly. So he said, “Did you bring me something other than lectures?”

“Don’t cheek me,” Euphemia warned him, but withdrew a packet of Cauldron Cakes from her purse. 

“Ah, cheers.” James tore it open, handing one to each of them. Then the Potters ate their Cauldron Cakes and talked about much happier things. 

In the Slytherin dormitories, Severus Snape watched Mulciber collect his things. The seventh year did not seem to care that he was being dismissed from school. _Better him than me_ , Severus thought. The very idea of slinking back to Spinner’s End early made him cringe. 

Then again, Mulciber wasn’t going to Spinner’s End. No, it was the hallowed halls of the family manor for him — where he would be congratulated, probably, on having followed the Dark Lord’s directive, and would take the next step sooner than any of the rest of them. 

Severus supposed he ought to be pleased. With Mulciber’s confession no shadow of suspicion would hang over him or any of the others. It was so neat, he almost suspected Rosier of planning it. But his gut still twisted at the memory of the previous night. Not at how Potter had strutted in, and poked and prodded at Mulciber, not at how quickly Mulciber had reached for one of the Unforgivables. 

No, he’d watched James Potter fall and wished, for a fleeting, scornful moment, that he’d been the one to cast it. To finally put the Gryffindor golden boy in his place. Then Potter had flung a Dungbomb at them, and blurred shapes were shouting spells. It was disorienting at first, until he realised they were simply Disillusionment Charms at work.

One of the shapes spoke with Lily’s voice, and the charm wore off to reveal her kneeling by Potter, telling him to stay awake, her face blanched by fear. And Severus thought, _I’d take the Cruciatus for that_. She’d barely looked at him before setting off for the Hospital Wing. He thought that this was the beginning of the end. 

Severus Snape was a clever young man, but he was particularly dense where Lily Evans was concerned. The end had begun long before that day in the seventh floor corridor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well! well well well! shoutout to "helter skelter," the mulciber song, which fuelled most of this chapter, and "my body" by young the giant which inspired the long happy tea leaves prank tangent. we will slow things down next chapter, "the trouble with prophecies," because the chapter afterwards is also... eventful. as i mentioned before, my reference for hogwarts floor plans is harper robinson's maps on hp lexicon. any inconsistencies are me being messy.
> 
> once again, a character defied my outline and did whatever she wanted. thanks, lily! i blame "nicest thing" by kate nash. anyway, leave me a comment or a kudo if you enjoyed, or even if you didn't >: ) i promise some good shippy fun is coming up...depending on your definition of "fun," i guess.
> 
> stay safe, everyone!
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	20. The Trouble With Prophecies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Michael and a Hufflepuff are attacked and someone's leaving threatening messages. Michael tells Doe not to get involved. Mulciber hits James with the Cruciatus while the Marauders, Lily, and Doe are trying to catch Snape etc. Lily blows up at James about his jumping into harm's way.
> 
> NOW: Spring is a chance to look ahead, but also to learn from the past. Lily doesn't forgive, and receives an invitation. Mary sees the light. James befriends a ghost. Doe loses something. So does Snape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More mentions of Mary's attack. Maybe you will hate me less at the end of this chapter... Please leave me a comment or a kudo, and thank you for reading and commenting and showing this story so much love!

_Interlude: Visions_

James Potter didn’t put much stock in prophecy. He made his own way in the world, he’d told his mates on the very first day of Divination class. Sirius told him that made it sound as though he was a plucky self-starter and not the heir to a potion fortune and the grandson of a Wizengamot member. James told him to shut up. 

Of course, James’s life would be more subject to prophecy than he’d ever have dreamed, at thirteen. Perhaps it is useful for us to pay attention to visions after all.

Hilaria Lawrence was the Divination teacher at Hogwarts, a very old woman who was what you might call a peacetime Seer. That is, her visions and portents were always concerning trivial, everyday matters, and never any prophetic doom. If you wanted to be uncharitable, you would have said her prophecies were useless.

But in a field of temperamental instructors, Professor Lawrence _liked_ teaching. And her students liked her, for the most part, especially because her funny trances would often result in predictions such as, “Mr. Lupin, there’s a new friend in your future,” and “Surprise roast chicken two nights in a row — Miss Shafiq, that’s your favourite, isn’t it?” 

Well, there were still students who did not were not very impressed by her. In a moment of uncharacteristic bluntness, Professor Lawrence informed a fourteen year old James Potter that he was the least talented diviner she’d ever seen — although, James had just caused a small fire in her classroom, so perhaps her short temper could be forgiven. 

In any case, Hilaria Lawrence was used to _harmless_ prophecies. So she was quite taken aback when she awoke from a trance during her sixth year Divination class in early January and said, “What did I say, dearies?” only to find her students staring at her in wide-mouthed shock.

“Y-You said,” Sara Shafiq began.

“I wrote it down,” said Emmeline Vance. “When the second month wanes, one who flies will suffer grievous harm.”

Lawrence blinked, certain she’d misheard. “You’re quite sure?”

“Very,” Emmeline said, sounding indignant.

“Oh, I see.” Lawrence shifted in her seat. “Well, let’s interpret it, shall we?”

“What’s there to interpret? When the second month wanes — that’s February — one who flies will suffer grievous harm — Ravenclaw and Slytherin play Quidditch in late February.”

Lawrence frowned. “Dearie, you must allow for a flexibility of interpretation—”

“Grievous harm is sort of the default, in Quidditch,” said Bertram Aubrey.

Emmeline shot him a glare. “ _Grievous_ sounds worse than a broken bone, Aubrey.” 

And even though Lawrence spent the rest of the afternoon trying to remind her students about _flexibility of interpretation_ , Emmeline Vance went straight to her team captain after the lesson, and the pair took the prophecy to Flitwick. The Ravenclaw versus Slytherin match was moved up to late January, but to ensure all four teams would have shortened practice times so too was Hufflepuff versus Gryffindor. Lawrence knew prophecies could not be prevented, so she was on high alert as March crept closer, waiting for something to happen.

As it turned out, Madam Hooch caught a mild case of pneumonia in the wake of the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor match, and spent ten days abed, shivering and sneezing mournfully. This, Lawrence declared at the staff table one morning, was obviously her prophecy’s fulfillment. Pneumonia seemed harmless, relatively speaking, but this didn’t bother the Divination professor. After all, she’d never foretold calamities before. Grievous harm was relative. Surely pneumonia caused Hooch a fair amount of grief.

And then, well, James Potter landed himself in the Hospital Wing. Students speculated wildly about the cause, especially given its result — Cassius Mulciber had been sent packing, permanently, and Olivia Nott was set to return. A rare Dark hex, some claimed, that had turned Potter into a warthog. (Gossip could be alarmingly specific.) But the teachers all knew what had happened: the Cruciatus Curse. _Grievous harm_ , Lawrence thought glumly on Tuesday morning, halfway through her second plate of breakfast.

Minerva McGonagall hadn’t come to the morning meal. She had parents to see to.

Looking into the proverbial crystal ball, then, demands a certain flexibility of interpretation. The hows and the whys of it all are so changeable — but before spring turns the Scotland snow to rain once more, these prophecies will come to pass.

“I have a boyfriend,” Lily Evans will say, that phrase that is part excuse and part regret, that comes before — or after — a fateful mistake.

“Hello, sunshine,” Mary Macdonald will say, and for once losing will feel like winning.

“Come here and kiss me,” Dorcas Walker will say, and she will be surprised at her own boldness.

“Was I not supposed to do that?” Germaine King will say, and the answer will be a resounding _no_.

“Don’t you see?” James Potter will say, smiling. “This is a do-over.”

Cecily Sprucklin will shriek, “ _Slag!_ ” and Amelia Bones will say, “At least I’m not overflowing with insecurity.” 

Sirius Black will say, admiringly, “So you _are_ over her — ’bout time!” and Marissa Beasley will whisper, “Enough is enough,” and Dex Fortescue will say, "Of course I love you." 

Peter Pettigrew will say, “What about second chances?” Regulus Black will say, “I have an idea.”

Severus Snape won’t get to say goodbye, and Remus Lupin will say, “We know.” 

Caradoc Dearborn will say, “See you,” only he won’t mean it. Michael Meadowes will say, “We probably shouldn’t,” only he won’t mean it either, not one bit.

“Why does it feel like my heart’s breaking?” Lily will say; the heartbreak will be her own doing.

“Contrition is part of my journey,” Mary will say, without a trace of sarcasm.

Well, all right. Maybe a _little_ sarcasm.

“I’m sorry, I love you,” Dorcas will say, not for the first time nor for the last — but without meaning to, and utterly sincerely.

“It was a joke. Wasn't it?” Germaine will say, and change everything for a certain boy.

“ObviouslyI do,” James will say, and that will be explanation enough.

But the trouble with prophecies is that you can’t always trust what you see — or hear.

* * *

_i. Unforgivable_

“Visitor for you,” Madam Pomfrey said on Wednesday morning. 

James was restless, and had taken to asking, every other hour, when he could leave the Hospital Wing. After enduring this questioning for half a day, Pomfrey told him he’d stay one hour longer for every time he asked. He’d shut up at that.

Now he sat up, glancing at the clock. It was well before the first bell, and Wednesday mornings meant Double Transfiguration. His friends had said they’d be in at lunchtime, and he didn’t think Lily was ever up this early. 

Just to be sure, he jammed his glasses on and said, “If someone comes in to shout at me, can you give them a detention?”

Pomfrey rolled her eyes and bustled into her office. James sighed and sat back against the pillows. Michael Meadowes had left the infirmary the previous day, so he was properly alone. But the full moon was in days, and he didn’t fancy having to sneak out of the Hospital Wing to transform. If Lily was indeed here to cuss him out again, he would have to beg her to stop. Only Pomfrey’s good graces would let him out. 

“What news from the outside world?” James called in the direction of the screen separating his bed from the infirmary doors.

“The new Fleetwood Mac is bloody amazing,” came an unexpected voice, and following it was Mary Macdonald. 

If she noticed James’s surprise, Mary didn’t remark on it, pulling up a chair and folding herself into it beside his bed. She rummaged through her book bag and pulled out some slightly squashed Cauldron Cakes.

“Sirius said they were your favourites,” she said.

“Thanks,” said James, setting them on his nightstand. “Er — it’s nice of you to visit, but why...are you here?”

Mary laughed softly, shaking her head. “Blessed Jesus and Mary, maybe I was _worried_ about you. You know, the way you’re worried for a mate who gets hit with the Cruciatus?”

He relaxed. He couldn’t fault that logic, though he still was surprised. “You know. McGonagall said they weren’t telling anyone.”

“Yeah, well, Germaine and I got it out of Lily and Doe.” She sighed, and looked down at her fingernails. “I thought you’d like to know, Mulciber’s been expelled.”

“Yeah, I know.” James’s confusion trickled back; surely Mary hadn’t come all the way just to tell him the most obvious consequence of what had happened.

It was the first thing he'd heard. McGonagall had told him so herself, when she'd come to ask him his account of things — an account that mysteriously omitted Sirius's role in anything, because of his probationary status. Thankfully, she hadn't pressed him on that point; there were bigger fish to fry, he supposed.

Mary continued to stare at her hands. “You know Mulciber and Avery hexed me, last year.”

 _Oh_. “Yeah, I...heard,” he said lamely, sitting up so he could look at her better. “Pissed me off they didn’t get much more than detentions.” 

What he’d heard was vague: they’d attacked her from behind, used some particularly nasty magic, and Mary’d been in the Hospital Wing for a few days. And Lily and Dorcas and Germaine had been furious about it all.

Mary hummed. “They didn’t just hex me. Well — the hexes came afterwards.”

“Yeah?”

She glanced in the direction of Pomfrey’s office, then cast _Muffliato_ with a flick of her wand. “Don’t tell,” she said first, with some of her usual terrifying poise.

“I wouldn’t,” James assured her.

She slumped back into her chair. “It was the Imperius.” Before he could say anything, she continued, still avoiding his gaze. “A prefect walked past before they’d really had me do much. But I suppose they didn’t like not being able to follow through — so they just tossed a load of random hexes at me.”

He was furious, first and foremost, but James kept his tone measured, sensing that the wrong move would send Mary running. “But...they didn’t get expelled.”

“No, they didn’t. I never told, about the Imperius.” She looked up then, gave a helpless little shrug.

“Why — why not?”

“Well, Avery was kind enough to inform me that since his mother’s on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, I’d better keep my mouth shut. And I was scared, I suppose, of what would happen if I told and they didn’t actually get expelled.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m a Muggle-born nobody, in case you’d forgotten.”

“I’m not blaming you for not talking,” he said quickly. Truthfully he _had_ thought that Mary’s saying something might have prevented Avery and Mulciber from hurting several others. 

But it also might not have. It might have just hurt her more. 

“Right.” She didn’t sound very convinced.

“Have you — did you tell anyone else?” James had a sneaking suspicion he knew the answer anyway.

Mary shook her head. “I didn’t...want anyone else to get hurt.” Then she laughed. “Oh, who’m I bloody kidding, _I_ didn’t want to get hurt.”

He clenched his jaw. They both stared into the middle distance, but not at each other.

“He’s gone now,” James said quietly, “and Avery’s got shit for brains, he’s nothing without his pal. And—” a burst of vengeful inspiration “—and Mulciber’s of age, he’ll get a proper trial, and Azkaban—”

Mary was looking at him with — pity? “Oh, _James_ ,” she said. At no point thus far had he worried she would cry, but now he thought she might. “He’s young for a seventh year. He’s not seventeen yet, and I don’t know _how_ he started Hogwarts before eleven but — didn’t you see him at our Apparition lessons? He couldn’t take them last winter.”

He didn’t know what to say. For once, there was no impulsive thought jumping to the tip of his tongue, no glib comment at hand. For once, all he thought was, _but that’s unfair_. Of course it was. It always had been.

“Oh, right,” he managed. “So, disciplinary hearing for him, then.”

“Probably.” She was somehow still looking at him with pity in her eyes, as though he was angrier about this on his own behalf and not hers. 

“Christ.” James rubbed at his forehead.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about,” he said firmly. 

Mary smiled a watery sort of smile. “Right.”

A change of topic was in order. James readjusted his specs and reached for the Cauldron Cakes. “Anyway, what have I missed on the gossip front?”

Her smile grew. “You’ve been in here a _day_.”

“Come off it, you and I both know the castle moves faster than that.”

“Well…” She scrunched up her face in thought. “The Gryffindor Quidditch team staged a protest—”

“They what?”

“Marched down to McGonagall’s office and demanded you get to practice as soon as you can fly.”

James grinned. “Brill.”

“It was a great shouting match, Isobel and Evan versus Minnie — I’ve _never_ seen Evan anything less than mellow, by the way, but he was _raging_. Even that sweet Keeper of yours looked really ticked off.”

He wiped at faux tears. “Perce coming into his own.”

“He’s cute,” Mary said offhandedly.

“You keep your claws away from him, Mary Macdonald. What else, other than my loyal troops fighting the good fight?”

“They _lost_ the good fight, by the way — McGonagall took points from all of them for cheek and language, and told them to take it up with Dumbledore.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. And, Florence Quaille and the Duckling were rowing about you.”

He frowned. “ _Me_ _?_ ”

“I don’t know the details, but they were in the library so people saw the blow-up. I mean, pick a better spot to go over your fantasies.” She rolled her eyes.

James didn’t mention that he’d already snogged Cecily, but he hoped fervently that it had nothing to do with that. He’d meant what he told Peter at Evan’s — those two had a weird competitive friendship thing going, and he did not fancy getting caught in the middle of it. “Fascinating, I’m sure I’ll find out all about it.”

“Dumbledore’s speaking to the school in a few days, plus someone’s giving a lecture about Dark magic. Like that’s going to put off creeps like Avery and Mulciber… Lawrence thinks her prophecy was about you—”

He groaned. “Not that woo-woo shite.”

“—and Lily’s back with her boyfriend.” 

As a rule Mary was unsubtle, and this statement was about as subtle as a row of line-dancing peacocks.

“Why’re you telling me that?” James said, though he knew why.

“What? No reason,” said Mary, though she knew he knew why. “You asked me to give you general gossip, so that’s what I did.”

“No, everything you told me was connected to _me_. Except the last thing.”

“Is that last thing not connected to you?” She had apparently decided to give up playing innocent.

“Mac, honestly — you sound like Peter. I’m seeing Marissa.”

A derisive snort. “You’re shagging Marissa.”

“I took Marissa to Hogsmeade.”

It was funny — with everyone else he'd made the opposite argument, that he wasn't _dating_ Marissa (true), but it seemed necessary to convince Mary that it wasn't purely physical either. Especially given this dangerous context.

“Did you shag Marissa at the Three Broomsticks?”

“No!” James protested. “Why — _where_ —”

“The loo,” Mary said, as if it were obvious.

“Jesus everloving Christ.”

“So you really, fully do not care that Lily is seeing Dex?”

James sighed. He regretted not dismissing her after she’d told him everything about Avery and Mulciber. “I do not. I do not fancy her, and we’re trying out a truce thing, and I wish her all the best. And I didn’t even realise they’d stopped seeing each other.”

“They hadn’t. Would you care if they had?”

“I’m going to tell Pomfrey you’re distressing me.”

“Does Lily’s having a boyfriend distress you?”

“Right, that’s fucking enough, go to Transfiguration,” he said, rolling his eyes. 

It was a testament to his willpower that his poker face didn’t so much as crack, he thought. If anyone other than his mates could see through this veneer to his memory of Lily in the common room, holding his mended wrist, it would be Mary Macdonald and her hawkish gaze. (Was it a Scottish thing? She looked like McGonagall in the making sometimes.) 

Well, Lily might’ve been able to tell too, except her powers of perception seemed to dim around him. Not that he was complaining — that was much, much safer.

“Hi,” Doe said breathlessly, dropping her bag onto the library table and sliding into the empty chair. “I’ve been taking notes for you, in Ancient Runes.”

Michael glanced up at her, an unreadable expression on his face. “Oh. Thanks. But you don’t have to — I’ll borrow from Amelia Bones.”

She frowned. “Amelia Bones writes her notes in _code_. Why would you want to learn a third language when we’re already being worked to the bone by Anderberg?”

He sighed and sat back. “Why did you do it?”

Doe blinked. “Do what?” But she had a feeling she knew where this was going; a prickle of guilt wormed its way into her, followed by a burst of righteous anger.

“I told you not to go all — vigilante justice on whoever hurt me—”

“Hang on, aren’t you happy Mulciber’s been expelled?” she said, incredulous. Both the sourness in his expression and the phrase _vigilante justice_ smarted at her. 

“I am _not_ happy that James Potter was tortured for it, no.” Michael frowned. “I’m not happy that anyone I know had to be hurt. And I’m really not happy that, after I explicitly told you not to do anything—”

She was shaking her head already. What part of this didn’t he understand?

“Michael. Look, we’re mates, and I’m really, really furious about what happened to you — no, let me finish.” He’d opened his mouth to interrupt her. 

“But I did what I _had_ to do, which was making sure my Muggle-born friend wasn’t dragged into something _she_ shouldn’t have been dragged into.”

The more she spoke, the stronger her conviction grew. Had _she_ wanted James hurt for this? Of bloody course not. She’d apologised to him first chance on Tuesday, and she’d meant it. But Doe wasn’t kidding herself. She couldn’t have stopped him. Perhaps Lily could have, but Doe _could not_ , and there was no use beating herself up about it.

She knew, categorically, that if she hadn’t been there Lily would have leapt out the moment Mulciber cast the curse. And James had already been wandless and incapacitated at that point, so it would’ve been one versus three. 

No. She’d done the right thing.

“You lied to me,” Michael said.

This, she realised, was the bottom line for him. She heard it in the hurt, harsh way he said _lied_. But Doe felt herself harden in response. Because she’d _done the right thing_.

“I broke a promise,” she corrected. “And I’m sorry that’s upset you. But I don’t regret it.”

He shook his head. “Well, how am I supposed to trust you now?”

“Trust me?” She was losing the reins of this conversation, if she’d had a grip on them at all. “I don’t understand — are you saying you don’t want to speak to me because of what I did?”

Michael was carefully avoiding her gaze. “I don’t know. I don’t know why I thought— I don’t _want_ my mates to go running into trouble.”

Frustration bubbled in her gut. “Yeah, neither do I. Which is why I went in the first place.”

“I thought you were smarter than that — that typical Gryffindor thinking!”

“Well, you thought wrong,” Doe said, fuming now. “I’m a Gryffindor through and through. You know—” She rose, pushing back her chair with a screech. “If you think the likes of Mulciber just turn themselves in you’re naïve and—”

He grabbed her wrist. “I don’t think that. But you’re not an Auror, Dorcas. You’re sixteen. It’s not your job to _catch_ Mulciber. So, yeah, I think it was reckless and a bit mad, what you did. But I also think I asked you, as a friend, to not get involved in what was quite honestly _my_ business, not yours. And you did anyway.”

Doe’s shoulders slumped a little. Her anger had fizzled out. It was replaced by something worse — a horrible, vague guilt, and an _uh oh_ sense of sadness at his shuttered-off expression. 

“I can’t stand by, Michael. You said it yourself — you hate feeling powerless, and so do I.”

He gave her a helpless sort of shrug. “It’s not that I don’t understand. I do. But just because I get it doesn’t mean I can forgive it. Not just yet.”

There was a finality, a defeat to his words. Funny, that, since _she_ was the one who’d lost — the argument, a friend. Doe picked up her bag and slung it over one shoulder.

“I’ll leave my notes. Just in case Amelia’s are indecipherable.”

He half-smiled. There was not much else to say, so she turned on her heel and left the library.

“ _Been down one time… Been down two times… I’m never going back again_ ,” the record on the common room’s player sang. 

Doe gave Mary a pleading look. “I’m not in the mood for this one.”

“Oh, all right,” Mary said. “We can listen out of order.” 

Doe smiled, and moved the needle to “Don’t Stop.” The girls were lying on the carpet. It was Friday afternoon, and Doe had just related the entire spat she’d had with Michael to her friend.

“If you ask me,” Mary said, rolling over to face Doe, “you should take Lindsey Buckingham’s advice. Never go back again.”

She sighed. “I’m his friend, Mary. I don’t want to dump him and run.”

“Even though you fancy him.”

Mary was too perceptive by half. Doe frowned at her. “I fancy him a bit but that’s neither here nor there. The point is that he’s angry at me as a friend, and I’ve mucked it up as a friend.”

“On the contrary, it’s here _and_ there. Go make a new Ancient Runes friend. Maybe snog them too.”

“Mare, don’t be glib.”

Mary sighed. “What are you trying to do, find a new way to beg his forgiveness? He needs time, Doe. You have to live your life while he takes his time. And then if he never comes round, well, you’ve been living your life. You haven’t been stuck in a rut waiting for him.”

Doe cocked her head. “You might be right.”

“I know you think I’m being— wait, what?”

Doe laughed a little. “I think you might be right.”

“Well, stop the presses, you’ve admitted it,” said Mary drily.

Doe shoved her gently. Growing serious once more, she said, “He didn’t seem angry, just...disappointed, sort of. That’ll wear away, won’t it?”

Mary gave her a small smile. “I hope so.”

Doe flopped onto her back once more. It was the end of February, and frost would soon give way to rain. Maybe before the seasons changed again, she and Michael would be okay again. 

* * *

_ii. Wills and Ways_

Ostensibly, James was serving detention. He was supposed to be sorting through supples for the Potions storeroom under Slughorn’s watchful eye, except that Slughorn’s actual eye was less than watchful and James had not done anything with Boomslang skin in a solid twenty minutes. The Potions teacher had left him alone in a classroom, and he was taking the opportunity to converse with a ghost.

“Look, it’s just one evening. And I’ve got no problem with you being there. You’re welcome, in fact,” James said.

The ghost, a man of middling height, middling girth, and nervous countenance, gave a noncommittal shrug. “I can’t be sure…”

“But you’ve got to make a decision.”

The ghost gave him a defiant sniff — the first sign of spine James had seen from him all evening. “I don’t have to make a decision, so I will not.”

“So you’ve decided not to make a decision?” James said, purely to be difficult.

The ghost scowled, and James reminded himself — with effort — that he wasn’t supposed to be antagonising him. This ghost, one of Hogwarts’s many spectral residents, was probably named Nathaniel, but was known to the Marauders as Dodgy Nate on account of his supernatural ability to wriggle out of anything.

The boys needed Nate _not_ to dodge, though. March would arrive soon, and while less dedicated students might not have been able to handle keeping an eye on Avery, Snape, and Rosier _and_ planning birthday parties, the Marauders were nothing if not determined. 

“I can’t be sure,” Dodgy Nate said again.

James suppressed a sigh. “Right. Is there anything you’re sure you want? Anything we can do for you?”

The ghost looked mildly affronted. “Are you bartering favours with me?”

He considered playing coy, but discarded the idea immediately. “Yeah, I’m trying to. My mates and I are men of means, Nate. Help us help you, and we can all enjoy a nice night together. Or _not_ together, if that’s what you prefer.”

Nate looked caught in indecision, as per usual. But finally the ghost said, “Peeves.”

James kept his triumphant grin to a small smile. “What about Peeves?”

“Checkmate,” Peter said, for the third time that evening.

Remus sighed. “I wasn’t really trying.”

“Lies.”

“I think this is a lot of trouble over nothing.” Remus pushed the chessboard further down his bed, and sat back against the pillows. The Hospital Wing was quiet that Saturday morning, which made it easier to deal with the throbbing in his head. “We’ve already had to stomach Moaning Myrtle to find Nate, we’ve been hounding Nate for two weeks, and now we’ve got to bring Peeves into this?”

“And Filch,” said Peter unhelpfully.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” James said. “It’s not _nothing_. It’s your birthday — and mine, might I add. You might be content chatting in the common room but I am not, and we’re shackled together in this for better or worse.” Underneath his mock outrage was a very real undercurrent of warmth.

Remus gave his friends a weak smile. “Fine. Go on, then.”

Sirius cleared his throat. “Right, so, when Filch finally figures it out—”

The problem with Peeves was that he was persistent. At some point during his ongoing reign of terror at Hogwarts, he’d discovered the Dodgy Lodgings and poor Nate inside them. Nate very rarely made decisions, but he’d quite quickly decided that he was not fond of Peeves. But the poltergeist cared not one whit for the dislike even of the house ghosts — why would he care what a minor spectre thought of him?

So he followed the Dodgy Lodgings around, from time to time — that is, whenever he got bored of troubling everyone else. He’d redoubled this effort that winter. He pestered Nate when the Lodgings drifted into the dungeons, breaking into the Potions storeroom and flinging various things at him. Of course, since Nate was a ghost, none of this affected him. But it spoiled his little bubble of isolation.

Peeves stole some particularly dusty trophies from the Trophy Room, and dumped them in the Lodgings. Nate did not appreciate the new decor. Filch was displeased with this loss too, so it was two birds with one stone for the poltergeist. And lately Peeves had simply taken to hovering in the Lodgings when Nate was trying to get some peace and quiet.

So, all the time.

The Marauders could appreciate Nate’s plight. And, more to the point, _they_ couldn’t throw a party in the Dodgy Lodgings if Peeves was lurking about. So it was in their best interests too to distract Peeves.

“The enemy of my friend is my enemy,” James had pronounced to the other Marauders.

“You’ve botched that saying,” Remus said drily.

With the already daunting task of corralling party supplies and perfecting the spells on the invitations, the Marauders happily signed on to a proxy prank war. The starting strategy was to make use of the tools they already had in place. While creeping about under the Cloak one night, Sirius _stumbled upon_ Peeves and _accidentally_ revealed to him the trick with Filch’s teakettle-imitating cabinet. 

The poltergeist could not resist. He set off the cabinet at midday on a Tuesday — a time when James was conveniently in the Great Hall, _not_ pranking the caretaker. 

Peeves was not terribly subtle, and openly bragged about his clever prank. Filch was forced to admit James might not have been the culprit after all, a few weeks before, and the detention he’d served was struck from his record. Of course, he still could not fathom how _Peeves_ had custom-ordered tea, and suspected the Marauders had _some_ hand in the whole thing, but he was more occupied with Peeves than his human, living rivals at present.

Sadly, Filch had learned his lesson, and promptly got McGonagall to fix his cabinet.

The Marauders _accidentally_ revealed to Peeves where their reserve stash of Dungbombs was. 

While they rolled barrels of Butterbeer and cartloads of Firewhisky through secret tunnels into the castle, Filch was shouting about the stench on the third floor. While they inspected the Dodgy Lodgings, Nate hovering anxiously nearby, Peeves and Filch were playing hide and seek on the sixth floor. While they mimicked the Marauder’s Map’s spell for the invitations, Filch was pleading with Dumbledore to get rid of the poltergeist once and for all.

Filch, already wound to breaking with the castle’s tensions, reacted with over-the-top fury to each of Peeves’s moves. And why would he bother with Dodgy Nate’s noncommittal coldness when he could have Filch’s rages instead? Peeves abandoned the Dodgy Lodgings entirely. The Marauders prepared to throw a party.

The sixth years were a month into Apparition lessons, but very little progress seemed to have been made in that time. Wasn’t the test date supposed to be in April? Lily tried not to think about it as she took her place, once again, in front of the wooden hoop. Of late she had been feeling a little jerk above her navel and a wave of nausea when Araminta Belby commanded them to Apparate, but she had yet to physically _move_. 

Today was worse than other days. By some unholy happenstance, none other than Severus Snape was practising beside her. Lily studiously avoided looking at or acknowledging him, her anger building all the while. In the days that had passed since Mulciber’s curse — very nearly two weeks, she thought, startled at the realisation — Lily had not seen much of her former friend. 

A good thing for her blood pressure, she thought. She found the longer she stood there, aware that he was next to her, the less charitable her feelings towards him got. Because, well, he’d had to have known something, right, if the attacks on Muggleborns had been Mulciber’s doing? They were together all the time, and Avery too.

And— and— _you stood there_ , Lily thought, _you stood there and didn’t do a thing while your friend used one of the worst, most evil pieces of magic we know of._ Mulciber hadn’t hexed James first, or stopped to consider before going for an Unforgivable Curse. The memory of it was ingrained in her mind. _I’ll have_ you _begging, Potter_. Not a single beat of hesitation before he’d spoken the incantation.

Just thinking of it made her sick.

“—envision your destination, and — now!” called Araminta Belby.

Lily spun despite her lack of focus; Belby’s command seemed to invoke a Pavlovian pivot in her. Her eyes were closed. When she opened them she was inside the hoop, and something was very wrong.

“Professor,” she said to a passing Slughorn, perfectly calm, “I’ve Splinched myself.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh, dear—”

For Lily’s left hand, her mother’s watch attached to its wrist, was still a few feet behind her. To her surprise she didn’t feel the least bit squeamish at the sight. On her one side, Bertram Aubrey gave a horrified yell and jumped away. On the other — well, she wasn’t looking at Severus, so she didn’t know what he was doing. But she watched, calm and clinical, as the other heads of house converged upon her and reattached her hand in a puff of purple smoke.

Lily stepped out of her hoop with a curious sense of pride, flexing her now-attached fingers. It had hurt, of course: a horrid burning sensation, as if she’d stuck the hand in question in acid. She’d been breathing heavily, and there had been some wetness in her eyes, but she hadn’t even cried out. Some things hurt less than you expected them to, apparently.

At the very end of class, the final time Belby told them to _propel themselves with their minds_ , Lily opened her eyes to find herself in her hoop, with all her limbs intact. Araminta Belby clapped her tiny hands, Bertram Aubrey muttered to himself in some kind of jealous fit, and Severus was entirely silent.

Maybe some of Lily’s abject discomfort had shown in her face, because Severus hurried out of the Great Hall the moment the lesson was over. But it was time to face the facts, to stop ignoring what was before her eyes. She started after him, her strides purposeful. Until, in the Entrance Hall—

“Evans, a word?” James stood by the castle doors, hands in his pockets.

She suppressed a frown. “Can I — not just this—” Severus was headed toward the dungeons, and she’d lose him if she didn’t hurry. Lily remembered, then, that she had shouted at James mere hours after he’d been Cruciatused, made little effort to hide from his parents the fact that she’d done so, and carefully avoided being alone with him since he’d left the Hospital Wing.

But _he_ wanted a word with _her_. She considered his expression, ignoring the rapidly vanishing Severus for a moment. He didn’t _look_ like he was going to tell her off and never speak to her thereafter. But she wasn’t as good at reading James as she’d like to be. 

Severus could always be found. Maybe James wouldn’t even want to speak to her at a later moment.

Her shoulders slumped a little, and she nodded. “Let me have it,” she said, trying to inject some wry humour into what would probably be a very bad conversation.

James gave her a confused smile. “Er, outside, maybe?”

Outside was as good a place as any. The March air was crisp, seeping through her jumper, but Lily relished the fresh feel of it against her skin. The sun was out. The grassy grounds were speckled with flashes of colour where flower buds were slowly, but surely, blossoming. Lily smiled at a sprig of bluebells, and dug through her pocket.

“Smoke?” She held out the packet.

James arched an eyebrow. “You’re supposed to be trying _not_ to indulge that habit at school.”

If he was joking with her then surely he wasn’t still angry.

Right? Yes. Definitely.

Right?

“Okay, Mum,” Lily said, to test the waters.

He didn’t smile, not properly, but she could tell it was tugging at his lips. Now that she’d noticed the faint scar he had there, she couldn’t _un_ see it. She checked over her shoulder to make sure no one from the castle was obviously looking, then lit the cigarette. The last time she’d smoked in his presence on the grounds, it had gone well.

“Anyway,” James said, eyebrows still raised at her smoking, “you’re probably worrying about how I’m feeling—”

Oh, she hadn’t asked how he was feeling! “How are you?” Lily said quickly.

That quizzical look came over him again. “Physically? Fine, thanks. I was going to say, how I’m feeling about you blowing up at me the other day.”

She winced. “Right. I’m, well — I’m really sorry. I was stressed and worried and...more than a little annoyed at myself. And you were right. I felt guilty so I was cross with you instead of...thinking about how guilty I felt.”

He nodded slowly. “I’ll take you up on that smoke now.”

She wanted him to just spit out what he was going to say, now that she’d said her piece. But she only nodded and fished out a cigarette for him. He lit it, inhaled, and stared into the cloudless sky. 

“I didn’t drag you out here so you could apologise to me,” James said. 

“You didn’t?”

He grinned at how surprised she sounded. “Give me a little credit.”

She shook her head, relieved but perplexed more than anything. “I don’t understand why. I was totally unfair to you, and — and your _parents_ , my God—”

“Oh, they definitely don’t care.”

“Well, _I_ care. I’m mortified.” She peered at him, frowning. “You’re sure you’re not angry?”

“I didn’t say that,” James said, looking back at her. “I _am_ angry. But I complained about it to my mates three days in a row so it’s out of my system, mostly.”

She huffed a laugh. “I’m glad you talked it out.” She was terribly curious what the other Marauders’ parts in this conversation had been. Remus was her friend, of course. But Peter and Sirius...she couldn’t guess what they thought of her. 

“What I wanted to say, before you derailed me — twice, by the way — is it’s fine and it’s in the past.” He shrugged, as if that were that. 

Lily grew incredulous. “That’s all?”

“Yeah. Are you going to get cross with me for not being cross about you being cross? Because that’s so funny I wouldn’t even be angry.” James was smiling now, as if he were truly enjoying his imagined anger cycle. 

“Well — thanks. For not being cross,” she said at length, smiling a small, relieved smile. She was so grateful — so surprised, too — at this forgiveness, casually and generously delivered, that the swirl of guilt and fear she'd been living with faded at last. 

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Having the moral high ground feels so good.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “Honestly, James.”

For a moment he grew sombre. “Second chances, right? I’m only returning the favour.”

She met his gaze and let out a soft, surprised _huh_. Something in this moment was growing, the bigness of it too much to comprehend just yet. Lily would have to examine it again later, turn it over in her mind. 

“And,” he went on, pulling something from his pocket, “I’m to give you this.”

 _This_ was a small rectangle of thick paper, rather like a business card. As Lily frowned at it, words began to appear on its surface. 

_Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs_

_cordially invite you to the coming-of-age party of_

_Remus Lupin and James Potter_

_The Dodgy Lodgings, eight p.m. sharpish_

_Saturday, March twenty-sixth_

_Gifts encouraged, Slytherins discouraged_

_Snitches get stitches_

“What is this? What’s — the Dodgy Lodgings?”

James grinned as if he had been anticipating this question and was only too pleased to answer it. 

“The Dodgy Lodgings are a suite of rooms in the castle that move around, home to notoriously unpindownable ghost Dodgy Nate. We’ve managed to get Nate to agree to us having the party there.”

Her brows rose; she could not contain her smile. It gave her a curious, warm feeling, that even when darkness hung around them the Marauders soldiered on in their quest for fun. Earlier she might have dismissed this as proof of how flippant and ignorant they were, but it seemed fairer to say that they, of all people, understood that life, and joy, had to go on.

“Because it moves around, you think you won’t get caught.”

“We know we won’t.”

She snorted a laugh. “So — this is an invitation.”

“Oh, not for you,” James said quickly. “I just wanted your opinion on the font.” He couldn’t keep a straight face for long; she laughed. “Hang on to that, because the back will have a map to the room come the 26th.”

She nodded and slipped the card into her pocket, making a mental note to stow it in a safe place once back in her room. 

“I’ll be there, I suppose,” she said. 

“Try not to sound so excited.”

Lily laughed again. “I’m still processing being — forgiven, and then being invited to your birthday party.” 

James shrugged. “Just another day in the rollercoaster of being my friend, Evans.”

“How do you know what rollercoasters are?”

He gave her a faintly offended look. “If you don’t think Sirius and I spend multiple weekends every summer at Blackpool Beach, I’ve vastly overestimated your intelligence.”

“I’ve never been,” Lily confessed.

Now he looked nothing short of outraged. “That’s not on, Evans. Get your mates and we’ll make a day of it.”

“That’s _two_ invitations now.”

“I’ll take both back if you like.”

“No,” she said quickly, and found that she meant it. However things had changed — however nonlinear and messy the change had been — she had arrived at a position she liked. She liked being his friend. It was enough, even, to bypass the lingering guilt she felt, the wariness that warned her not to be reckless with the people around her.

She glanced down at the damp grass, toeing a flower. Then she glanced back up at him, squinting against the sunlight. “You’re sure you’re feeling all right?”

He tilted his head, as if considering. He pushed his hair back. “Physically, yeah,” he said again. 

“Not physically, then.”

He pointed his cigarette at her, accusingly. “This is my conversation. You don’t get to start making it about bloody feelings.”

She simply arched her eyebrows.

“Angry,” James said, though his voice was devoid of any emotion. “Angry that Mulciber gets to join his Death Eater buddies early, and that was all the punishment he got.”

Lily did not say anything, because she did not think his words needed a response. They stood there, smoking in silence. In the distance Hagrid could be heard singing to himself in his garden, horribly off-key. Spring meant change. But some change came frustratingly slowly; some change needed a push. 

“Can I ask a favour?” she said finally.

James had been staring at the shadowed Forbidden Forest. He turned back to her. “What’s the favour?”

“The map that you lot have. Could you check where someone is for me?”

He extricated it from a pocket, muttered _I solemnly swear I am up to no good_. Lily resisted the urge to lean closer and stare at it.

“I don’t think I got to tell you it’s really clever,” she said.

He gave her a crooked grin. “I’m already going to help. You don’t have to flatter me.”

“Ha _ha_. Honestly. At first I thought it’s a bit like cheating, that you know things about everyone because you’ve got a map, but.” Lily shrugged. “I have to say, it’s very thorough and dedicated of you.” It was almost funny, how they’d devoted themselves to knowing the castle and its residents. 

“Thorough and dedicated, my middle names,” James replied as he unfolded the parchment. “Who are we looking for?”

 _Deep breaths, Lily_. “Severus.”

He looked up sharply. “Is that so.”

“You were already going to help,” she reminded him. When he continued to look sceptical, she sighed and said, “I need to have a conversation with him. And it’s long overdue. And, really, that’s all I want to say right now.”

“All right,” he said slowly. “Library, in the Advanced Defence section.”

“Thanks.” Lily put out her smoke, squared her shoulders, and turned to face the castle once more. No dillydallying, she told herself. There was no use putting it off.

“You look nervous,” James noted. “Bad with confrontation? I’d never have guessed.”

She laughed. “You know, in primary school my mum was phoned four separate times because I’d been fighting.” 

He whistled. “Solid credentials.”

“Well, I’m going to go now. And hopefully _not_ have a fistfight.”

“I dunno, I’m hoping for a fistfight.”

She gave him a look of admonishment. “Really. Thank you.”

He waved it off. “Run along, Evans.”

Normally Mary did not have sympathy for girls like Cecily Sprucklin. That wasn’t to say Mary thought she was _better_ than Cecily. She simply thought the Hufflepuff girl to be...one-dimensional. Cecily was some sort of broom company heir person, and it was plain to Mary that her comfortable life had encouraged her to have exactly zero ambitions.

Or maybe Mary did not have sympathy for Cecily Sprucklin because there but for the grace of God was she. Mary’s family had gone from all right to well-off just before she’d left for Hogwarts, so her head had been on her shoulders and not in the clouds. Mary’s parents were forgiving and laid back, but they did not give her free rein, not entirely. Mary was not white, and she was noticeably not white, so a childhood of strange looks and mutterings had left its mark. 

But what if Mary had been rich and spoiled and unaware of any sort of injustice? Maybe she wouldn’t have dreamed of the record shop in Diagon Alley. Maybe she would have a best mate she was constantly in competition with. Maybe she wouldn’t have tried to be smart and bold, and maybe she would’ve been a bit of a headcase where boys were concerned.

 _Ugh_ , Mary thought as the sixth years filtered away from the Great Hall after the Apparition lesson. Maybe she was _almost Cecily Sprucklin_.

The girl in question was standing with a clump of Hufflepuffs — her disgruntled best mate among them — and complaining loudly about their Arithmancy homework. In Mary’s opinion, Aurelius, the Arithmancy professor, had been too forgiving about O.W.L. marks. He took students who achieved As, but N.E.W.T.-level Arithmancy was mind-bogglingly difficult, so much so that Mary and Lily spent their Thursday evenings after class revising all the material once more. Cecily shouldn’t have been taking advanced Arithmancy, and that was a fact.

Mary sighed. She wished she could be entirely cold and heartless. Then she marched up to Cecily with a smile on her face.

“Hiya, Cecily,” she said. The Hufflepuffs looked surprised at this interruption. Mary carried on smoothly. “Lily and I revise Arithmancy on Saturdays and Thursdays. We were just thinking, this chapter’s so confusing we could use a lot more study partners. Do you want to study with us on Thursday?”

Lily and Mary had said nothing of the sort, but she was operating under the tenet of asking forgiveness, not permission. As she’d hoped, Cecily brightened at the prospect of studying with two of the best students in the class, and eagerly agreed to meet them in the Arithmancy section of the library that week. Mary walked away feeling not entirely clear of conscience, but a little lighter. 

She didn’t want to _tell_ Cecily. It was only a few kisses. Well, depending on your definition of a few. And true, it would probably have wound up more than a snog, if Mary and Chris had made it to Gryffindor Tower without finding Michael. 

But intention wasn’t everything. Right?

She was doing her penance, helping Cecily with Arithmancy, and the rest was between her and Chris. In short, it was none of Mary’s business. _Chris_ was the one who’d broken an agreement. Just like with Amelia Bones in fourth year.

Except, in fourth year, Mary had truly, honestly not known about Chris and Amelia. And this time she’d known about Chris and Cecily. Cecily had even factored into her decision to kiss Chris, since her best bloody mate fancied the pants off him. 

How had she managed to make things _more_ complicated than when she’d been trying to decipher whether or not Doc fancied her back? 

Morose, Mary found herself headed for the library. Well, she was moving with the crowd, preferring not to be alone in the corridors just then, and the crowd seemed to have decided that a Sunday was best spent studying. Pince gave her a nasty look as she passed by the librarian’s desk; with effort, Mary stopped herself from making a rude gesture. (The librarian had once caught her snogging Stephen Fawcett in the Astronomy section. In Mary’s opinion, Pince’s rage at this discovery was born more of her own need to snog someone than anything else.) 

Assuming that she and Lily would be talking Cecily — and whichever birdbrained friend she brought — through Arithmancy on Thursday, it would do her good to get a head start on the next week’s homework. She chose a depressingly dark table, dumped her satchel on its surface, and went to retrieve _Counting by Numbers: Mathematical Approaches to the Future_. 

But the universe had it in for her. The volume in question was currently in a seventh year’s hands, and that seventh year was Caradoc Dearborn.

Mary coughed. She’d been avoiding him since the revelation that he might have kissed her while dating another girl. _Infidelity_ , Mary thought crossly. Maybe the very concept of fidelity was a problem. Raging teenage hormones were simply incompatible with things like common sense, or long-term commitment.

Exhibit A was her stupid decision to snog Chris Townes.

“Do you need that book much longer?” she said. She was already preparing to make a case for why _she_ needed it more.

Doc looked up. “What? Oh — yeah, actually. Why don’t we share?”

This happy, easy compromise rankled her. “Well, all right,” Mary said. She turned on her heel and headed back to her table, and he followed. 

She tried not to think what Doc would say, if he knew that she’d knowingly participated in Chris’s cheating. Well, _enabled_ , not just _participated_. Then she reminded herself that he wasn’t _better_ than her. Why did she always operate on the principle that he was better than her, and that he knew better than her?

What was she _doing_ , sitting there at the library and hoping he noticed how good she was at Arithmancy?

“I wanted to ask about something,” Mary said, summoning all the blunt daring of _Mary Macdonald_ , instead of the uncertainty that hovered over her of late. 

Doc looked up, a curl of dark hair falling over his forehead. “Yeah?”

“Are we never going to talk about the fact that we’ve kissed?”

He frowned. “Do...we need to? I mean — is there much to talk about?”

Again Mary wondered at the curious working of boys’ brains. The attentive questions of this one had kept her affections going for over a year. Only, how attentive was he, really? _Demonstrably?_

“I don’t know,” she said, coldly. “Am I just a body to snog or a person to speak to?”

Doc seemed taken aback by her tone. “I don’t understand — are you angry?”

Mary scoffed.

“ _Are_ you? You never once came to _me_ after we kissed, and last time I checked you don’t wait around, Mary.”

She stiffened. “I _don’t wait around?_ As in, I’m easy?”

Doc was still frowning; he shook his head. “As in, you would have said something if you’d wanted anything more.”

How ridiculous, yet fitting, that the one time Mary wanted to be chased the boy in question had expected her to do the chasing. She looked at him properly, taking in the handsome features and the flinty grey eyes that had so drawn her in. Mary had meant to ask him the truth about last year, and whether he had indeed been seeing Marissa when he’d kissed her, but now she did not want to speak at all. 

What a train of mistakes she’d made. Mary Macdonald put her head down and did her homework.

* * *

_iii. Blood and Water_

It was Thursday, the 10th of June in 1976. As Lily Evans left her Defence Against the Dark Arts written O.W.L. behind, the world seemed decidedly bright. There was still the practical that afternoon, and Transfiguration the next day, but she felt confident about both. There was a pleased little smile on her face, a skip in her step, as her friends clustered around her.

“—at the risk of jinxing myself, that’s in the bag,” Mary Macdonald was saying, flipping a long lock of hair out of her face. “Now the problem is the bloody practical—”

“We can revise some counter-jinxes, if you like,” Dorcas Walker said. 

“Boo,” said Germaine King. “We ought to go stick our feet in the Lake, the weather’s lovely.”

“Your vote, Miss Evans?” Doe said, smiling.

Lily gave her friends a beatific grin. “Feet in water.”

Germaine whooped; they split off from the boys in front of them, and a rather large group of girls made its way to the lakeshore. Behind the four friends came Sara Shafiq, a bunch of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs with her. Everyone seemed to be in a festive mood, thanks to the approaching end of exams. Lily kicked off her shoes and stripped off her socks, dropping to the grass and dipping her feet into the cool Lake.

“I concede,” Doe said, closing her eyes and leaning back on her hands. “This was an excellent idea.”

“I don’t know any other kinds,” said Germaine cheerfully. 

Lily didn’t close her eyes like Doe. Instead she watched her classmates, variously scattered around the lawn and the lakeside, the sunlight limning them all in gold. She felt immensely fond of all of them, in that moment. It was the sort of weepy nostalgia that came with any important stage of life, and Lily was full of it. Soon there would be N.E.W.T.s to worry about; soon she would be packing for her last year at school. And everyone around her would then fade off into the real world.

Who knew where the future would take them all? Would she ever see Florence Quaille, who was at that moment gingerly poking a toe at the Lake’s surface, as if afraid the Giant Squid would grab her? Would she run into Bertram Aubrey — loudly proclaiming he’d earned an Outstanding on their exam — at the Leaky Cauldron, on occasion? 

She would not leave her friends behind, of course. Germaine, Mary, and Doe were there to stay. And even Sara, her fourth roommate, who devoured romance novels and could be a little silly but was, on the whole, too charming to be disliked. And Remus Lupin, currently sitting some distance away with his mates, probably revising for tomorrow’s Transfiguration exam. 

Lily’s rosy hypothesising faded a bit at the sight of said mates. There was James Potter, toying with a Snitch — honestly, he didn’t even _play_ Seeker, that was Germaine’s position. She rolled her eyes. Sirius was no favourite of hers either, and Peter, though nice, was all too carried away by his friends’ antics sometimes — as he seemed to be that moment. 

But she didn’t want to spoil that day by watching the Marauders. So Lily yanked her gaze away, looking instead at the older students further down the lakeshore. There were few seventh years to be found — the nervous energy that surrounded them during N.E.W.T.s did not abate, apparently, even for beautiful June days. She did see some sixth-year faces she recognised: the Ravenclaw prefects, Marissa Beasley and Caradoc Dearborn, members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, a group of laughing Hufflepuffs she did not know. Marissa saw her looking, and waved. Lily waved back.

“Oh, Paracelsus on a pogo stick,” Germaine said.

“What?” Lily said, swivelling around to see what her friend was looking at.

She almost regretted it. There was Sev, on the ground, with Potter and Black standing over him. A small crowd had gathered to watch whatever was going on. Lily didn’t think before she jumped to her feet, careless of her bare toes in the grass.

“Lily, don’t—” Doe began. “Didn’t you just say you’d fought with him?”

This was true — they had been rowing, on and off, since Mulciber and Avery had turned their wands on Mary. But even if Lily was cross with him, she couldn’t let him get in a fight, hopelessly outnumbered, against the Marauders. 

She was striding across the grounds, hands clenched into fists, anger mounting with every step. Who did they think they were? Hexing people for sport, honestly — the _gall_ , the _idiocy_ , the _arrogance_ , and the worst part was that Potter could be all right when he wasn’t busy being insufferable, but it was as though he’d _decided_ to be insufferable… Lily wanted to shake sense into him.

She arrived just in time to hear Potter say, “ _Scourgify!_ ” and see the soap bubbles fill Sev’s mouth. She was shouting before she even realised it. “Leave — him — _alone!_ ”

Potter and Black looked quite taken aback. The former ran a hand through his hair and smiled.

“All right, Evans?”

Lily’s hands settled on her hips. “Leave him alone,” she said again through gritted teeth. “What’s he done to you?”

It was stupid to ask, but the question slipped out anyway. She ought to have known better, since she’d heard the other side of this often. Asking Sev to lay off Potter and his friends went very badly, always.

“Well,” Potter said slowly, as if this were some colossal joke they were all in on, Lily included, “it’s more the fact that he _exists_ , if you know what I mean.”

The ensuing chorus of laughter only brought Lily’s blood to a boil. She had never properly told Potter what she thought of his posturing, but apparently now was the time.

“You think you’re funny,” she spat. “But you’re just an arrogant, bullying toerag, Potter. Leave him _alone_.”

Because there had to be some semblance of logic and reason, right, in this infuriating conflict between her best mate and her housemate? One or the other of them had to listen, when someone told them things had gone on for long enough?

For a moment she thought he would listen. Something in his expression changed, from the self-assured cool she knew. But what he said instead was—

“I will if you go out with me, Evans. Go on — go out with me, and I’ll never lay a wand on old Snivelly again.”

Lily did not notice the meaningful glances exchanged between Sirius and Peter. She didn’t notice Severus reaching for his wand, having outlasted the jinx placed on him. She didn’t notice her own friends, who had come to see if she needed their help, with matching expressions of concern on their faces. She was too busy thinking, _what?_

Because he didn’t mean it. Of course he didn’t. He had never shown the slightest interest in her, unless it was to tick her off in class or to carry out some ridiculous prank to earn attention and admiration. Only Sev thought Potter had any good feeling for her, but Sev was always stupid where _he_ was concerned. She and Potter were not friends, and though they occasionally spoke, they argued more often.

So if he didn’t mean it, he was joking. If he was joking, he meant to humiliate her.

Well, it was working. Beneath the hot flood of anger Lily felt the first sting of _hurt_. _That_ was the look on his face. It said, _just say yes, go on, and then we can all laugh at you for being stupid enough to think I meant it._ And people were watching, and listening, and they would laugh.

She did not want to be the butt of a cruel joke, and too often James Potter made her feel like one. James, who had everything, who moved through the world like it had been made to suit and serve him; James, who seemed never to have an obstacle in his way. James Potter glided through life. Lily Evans stumbled.

But she swallowed her confusion, because she knew that a well-placed barb was a more effective defence than any physical blow. As Potter was proving, just then, with his insincere, innocent _questions._

“I wouldn’t go out with you,” Lily said calmly, “if it was a choice between you and the Giant Squid.”

Some members of their audience chuckled; others chorused _ooh_ s. Whatever change Lily had seen in Potter’s expression smoothed itself back to arrogance.

“Bad luck, Prongs,” Black said cheerfully. Then— “Oi!”

She flinched; Sev had made his move while Potter had been facing her, and suddenly there was a gash across his cheek, and blood, _blood_ , splattered across his robes. Lily hadn’t the time to feel horrified, or to get between the two of them more properly. Because Potter retaliated, and Severus was hanging in the air, upside-down. The crowd laughed again. _Levicorpus_ was juvenile, Lily reminded herself, not funny.

“Let him down!” she said again.

James gave an exaggerated sigh. “Certainly.” 

And Severus flopped to the ground. Lily hoped, suddenly and fervently and in vain, that it would all end there, but Sev was getting up again, and Black was heading him off. Enough was enough — she pulled out her own wand. She hadn't resorted to fighting since she was ten years old, but she would if she had to.

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” 

Both Black and Potter glanced at her wand, and in any other situation Lily would have been gratified by their wariness.

“Ah, Evans, don’t make me hex you,” Potter said.

 _I’d like to see you try_ , she stopped herself from saying. “Take the curse off him, then!” She’d end this stupid brawl and be on her way. Come to think of it, she was angry at Severus too — there was still blood across Potter’s face, and she wished he hadn’t so stupidly prolonged this fight. 

With another big sigh, Potter freed Sev. “There you go, you’re lucky Evans was here, Snivellus—”

And then it happened, the cold flash of anger on her best friend’s face as he struggled to stand. The sneer. He didn’t even look at her as he said it. Would that have been better or worse?

“I don’t need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her!”

Lily inhaled sharply, but her face remained impassive. Her shields had already been raised, after all. _Go out with me, Evans_. But this was so much worse. There was not an ounce of regret on Sev’s face. Only anger. _Words can't hurt me_ , she reminded herself.

“Fine,” she said, drawing her armour tightly around herself. “I won’t bother in future. And I’d wash your pants if I were you—” Her expression hardened. “— _Snivellus_.”

The bonhomie of the onlookers had faded — although, they shouldn’t have been enjoying this pissing contest in the first place. Lily could now feel her friends hovering behind her. It would only be a minute before Dorcas jumped to her defence… But it was Potter who spoke once more, raising his wand arm again and looking honestly angrier than Lily had ever seen him.

“Apologise to Evans!” Potter shouted.

This was the spell that broke the Hippogriff’s back — how dare he start this fight, try to humiliate her, and then come to her defence? Lily rounded on him.

“I don’t want _you_ to make him apologise. You’re as bad as he is!”

Potter lowered his wand, though this seemed a reaction more of outrage than of contrition. “What? I’d _never_ call you a — you-know-what!”

The words tumbled out of Lily with a measured furor. “Messing up your hair because you think it looks _cool_ to look like you’ve just got off your broomstick, showing off with that stupid Snitch, walking down corridors and hexing anyone who annoys you just because you can — I’m surprised your broomstick can get off the ground with that _fat head_ on it.” 

Each syllable was perfectly, bitingly enunciated. She’d never felt so righteous in her life. She hoped it hurt to hear. “You make me _sick_ ,” she concluded, and having earned the last word, she whirled around and strode towards the castle. 

She ignored Potter calling after her, ignored her friends, who huddled around her as if protecting her from others’ stares.

“The cheek of him!” Mary was saying, red in the face with anger, seeming ready to take on the Slytherins herself. “The — I’m going to go give him a piece of my mind—” Doe looked as if she badly wanted to join her. Germaine clung to Lily’s arm, as if afraid she would take off, and quietly returned her shoes and socks to her.

Lily shook them all off. “I’m all right. It’s — really, it’s fine. I just want to be alone.” 

She needed to calm down, or she would fail her Defence practical miserably. Her mind insisted on replaying what had just happened over and over again; she forced it to stop, locked the memory away in an iron box, and pushed the box to the deepest recesses of her mind.

“Are you sure?” Doe said gently.

“Yes,” she said, her voice clipped. “Yes — I’m fine. I’ll go to the library, and I’ll see you for the practical exam.”

“Lily—” Germaine tried.

“ _Trust_ me,” she said, and she was gone before they could see the tears welling up in her eyes.

That hadn’t been the last row of that day. After the exam — which Lily had done well enough in — and after dinner, she’d been accosted by Potter in the common room, where he’d avoided apologising for his hand in everything and instead tried to tell her how horrible Severus was. She was not having it. She reminded him that she didn’t care one whit what he thought or said. Mary told him, coolly but not entirely rudely, to sod off. 

Then Severus had appeared at the portrait hole that evening to plead his case. Lily had dealt with him, because he’d threatened to stay all night. But there was no going back.

Was there?

Because they’d been rowing, and maybe if she hadn’t picked and picked at him about Avery and Mulciber he would not have lashed out. Maybe he had seen her _almost_ smile at the _Levicorpus_ stunt. Maybe, maybe, maybe… Maybe there was a world in which it all went differently.

This was not that world.

As Lily made her way to the library, she tried very hard not to think of that day by the Lake, seared as it was into her memory. She supposed some of the Slytherins had referred to her as such, at some point before then, but all those times had paled in comparison to _that_ time. There was no easing the sting, the betrayal.

All this time she’d thought that because he saw her differently, he could be reminded that she was no different than Mary, or any other Muggleborn, and they deserved his defence just the same as she did. _Anyone_ deserved his defence, against the horrible Dark magic his so-called friends practised. 

But that was the problem — he saw her differently. Lily realised, reflecting on that day last year, that he’d only ever save her. When it came to Dark magic, it did not matter if random Muggleborns got hurt. It did not matter if James Potter was tortured — maybe he felt a vengeful thrill, even, when his old nemesis was cursed. Severus Snape did not believe everyone deserved a chance. And in some ways it had been wrong of Lily to only see it when he’d struck at her.

She wanted so badly to believe people were good. Severus had been her first friend — or the first friend she hadn’t been related to. She believed he was clever, brilliant, even. He was introspective, and he’d cared about her. But he didn’t care about much else, and Lily hated few things as much as carelessness.

Just as James had said he would be, Severus was in the Restricted Section. Lily beckoned to him from outside the velvet rope. He gave her a look of such great suspicion, it was a wonder she wasn’t physically knocked back by it. But she only beckoned more insistently.

“I need to talk to you.”

He set his jaw. “I don’t think we have anything to talk about.”

“We do,” Lily said, “and unless you want to get banned from the library you’ll come outside with me right now. Don’t think I won’t start shouting and throwing books around,” she added, when he gave a disbelieving snort.

But he followed, and Lily led him past Pince’s desk and out into the corridor. The library had been quite full; the corridor, by contrast, was quiet, cool, and empty.

Severus was frowning at her. “What is it.”

“Mulciber took sole responsibility, for what happened with McIlhenny and Michael Meadowes,” Lily began.

At once Severus grew closed-off. “Yeah, so?”

“Yeah, _so_ , I know he had help. He couldn’t have known that—” she summoned up her memory of James’s theories “—that Filch would go up to the sixth floor, or that the Trophy Room would jump, or—”

“He had help. Olivia Nott, whom he’d Imperiused,” came the cool reply.

Lily frowned. “Mulciber doesn’t do a damned thing without telling Avery, Severus, and don’t expect me to believe you didn’t know anything either.”

His brows shot up. “Are you accusing me of something, Lily?”

Yes, she supposed she was. But that wouldn’t do at all. “I’m saying, I think you should turn in the names of whoever was involved to Dumbledore. _Now._ Because it’s the right thing to do.”

He remained impassive. “I told you, I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you,” she confessed. It felt horrible to say, even now that they weren’t friends anymore, but _God_ , it was the truth. She could not trust him.

“Well, there’s nothing I can do about that, is there?” he shot back. “Sounds like _your_ problem to me — but don’t worry, I’m sure _Potter_ can help with that—”

Oh, bringing up James was the wrong move on his part. Lily felt herself swell with anger.

“Yes, do let’s talk about Potter,” she said, dangerously calm now. “Let’s talk about how your mate Mulciber used an _Unforgivable Curse_ on him—”

To her absolute shock, Severus scoffed. “It was three bloody seconds—”

“Shut up,” Lily said, too stunned to think of something better to say. “Shut up, you don’t seriously think that — that because the two of you have a childish rivalry, he deserves torture?”

“That’s not what I said,” he replied, looking mutinous. “I just meant, everyone’s acting like he’s some big survivor — always playing for attention—”

She wanted to scream. “He’s _not_ playing for attention, because no one _knows!_ No one except the people who were there! So we’re back to square one, which was the square in which you just said you didn’t care that James was Cruci—” With effort, she lowered her voice, tried to leash her temper. “Who _are_ you?”

“What?” Severus said, apparently thrown by this change in tack.

Lily shook her head. “Who _are_ you, I said. No — you know, I always thought the _real_ you was the version of you I knew, not the version you are with your horrid friends — but I was wrong, wasn’t I? You were always pretending in front of me.”

His rebellious expression gave way to wide-eyed surprise. “Lily, no, I—”

“Shut _up_ ,” she said again, tearfully now. “I’m not done talking. You don’t care who gets hurt, Severus, and that’s not a new development. That’s how you’ve _always been_.”

The last time they’d argued, on the night before her birthday — the night before the first attack — she’d said he was the one under a spell. But that had never been true. He was acting of his own volition, and it was naive of her to pretend otherwise.

She’d been so, so naive.

“I don’t understand what brought this—” Severus began.

"Fine, tell me something else, then. Last year, by the Lake—" she noticed him flinch, and thought, furiously, _you don't get to be hurt._ I _was hurt, not you._ "Last year, you used a spell that cut James's face. What was it?"

"W-What?" 

"What spell did you use?" Lily said, impatient.

"How am I supposed to remember?" he said, his voice rising too.

"Was it _Sectumsempra?_ Was that the spell they used on McIlhenny too?"

His eyes were wide. "What— How do you know what that is?"

Her chest was tight; it hurt to speak, but she couldn't say if she was _sad_ or _furious._ "Does it matter? How do _you_ know what it is? Is it Mulciber's spell? Or is it yours?"

"Honestly, Lily—"

She cut him off again. “Tell me, do you actually believe in the same things as them? That — that Dark magic is _cool_ and a laugh, and that Muggleborns don’t deserve magic?” He did not reply; she surged on. “Or do you just want somewhere to belong?”

Lily did not know him anymore. But oh, she still knew what hurt him most. She could see the anger in his dark eyes as he recoiled.

“Because, honestly,” she said, “I can’t think _what’s worse!_ ” The corridor rang with her shout. Only the smallest part of her was currently thinking, _tell me I’m wrong._ The rest of her had long ago given up hope.

At his continued silence, Lily shook her head and backed away. “You’re pathetic. You’re weak-willed and pathetic and you’re — you’re _not a good person_.” 

It might not have meant anything to him, as an insult, but it was the worst possible thing she could think. It was the worst thing she could say, and it had been said, and now Lily walked away from the breach with her heart still hammering. She did not cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> silly me, thinking this chapter would be a break from drama! 
> 
> i hope you guys enjoyed, especially the teasers ;) so, the way they'll work is the same way lawrence's prophecy worked — characters may say the phrase multiple times, but there will be ONE specific significant time they say it, and you will absolutely know it when you read it. why would i do it this way, you ask? so i can tease you extra bad.
> 
> next chapter is called "waters of march / self-deception," and things are going to go Down in it! i will let it speak for itself :) thank you as always for reading, please do take care of yourselves, and leave a comment. which prophecy do you think will be fulfilled first? 
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	21. Waters of March / Self-Deception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Michael is angry at Doe for going after Mulciber etc. Lily was also briefly angry at Doe for holding her back and at James for running into a fight, which resulted in Mulciber using the Cruciatus on him. James invites Lily to his and Remus's joint birthday party. Lily and Dex are on the mend. Mary kisses Chris Townes, who's dating Cecily Sprucklin, and feels bad about it. They're both a bit scarred because they found an injured Michael right after. Amelia Bones hates Mary, because Mary was the Other Woman when Chris cheated on *her*. Doc Dearborn maybe cheated on Marissa Beasley with Mary.
> 
> NOW: Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs present a coming-of-age party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for a homophobic remark. By the way, JKR is a terf and terfs aren't welcome here. (Third time I've had to say that in a note, for fuck's sake Joanne.) 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting!

_i. The Moon Floating Free_

_11:59 p.m._

“Set it off, mate,” Sirius said solemnly and handed James the firecracker.

“This is the stupidest thing we’ve ever done,” James said with glee. “Right, open the window—” Peter did “—lighter?” Remus handed it to him. “Balance me, Padfoot.” Sirius steadied the massive rocket. 

James fiddled with the lighter for a moment before a tiny flame emerged. He lit it, propped it on a chair, and then backed up. Twenty seconds later, it shot off into the pitch-black sky with an earsplitting whistle. The room erupted into cheers.

There was a faint pop. No bright burst of light.

“Oh, was that it?” Germaine said.

But that was _not_ it. A shimmering red and gold caricature of James’s face appeared against the stars, hanging suspended there for a few seconds before fading away. The Marauders whooped and repeated the process with another rocket, which produced Remus’s face.

“Did you do that?” Dorcas said admiringly. “That’s really advanced magic.”

Sirius barked out a laugh. “Are you joking? We custom-ordered them. Turns out Scottish Lisa does great sketches.”

“Don’t say _Scottish Lisa_ like you don’t know her actual name, Padfoot,” said Remus, rolling his eyes.

“Honest to fucking God, I do not.”

“Happy birthday,” said a voice at James’s ear, and he turned just in time to meet Marissa halfway. His fingers tangled in her hair, and she looped her arms around his neck, and he forgot about everything else.

* * *

_ii. The End of the Road_

_5:42 p.m._

It was the evening of Saturday, March 26th, and Lily Evans was in the library. Ostensibly her mind was on the Herbology homework in front of her: practical applications of carnivorous plans. But she was thinking, as she often was, of several things at once. She and Dex would be spending a free afternoon together that week, before he went home for Easter hols. He’d asked her to introduce him to Muggle music — a perfectly harmless date, as far as dates went — and she needed to put together a list of records to take, with Mary’s help. 

And Sara Shafiq’s aunt had owled her again that morning, completely unprompted — Lily had very horribly neglected to continue their correspondence after the term had started up — and reminded her that the Wizengamot needed administrative interns, and if she were still interested she should write Amanda Plimpey, her secretary, for the application. Lily wasn’t sure what to make of that. She supposed it was time for her to actually start thinking about the paths ahead of her, because a Ministry job would look highly upon office experience, but an ad in the classifieds in that morning’s _Prophet_ made the decision very difficult indeed — as if some hand of fate was manipulating her life, she thought wryly. 

Because St. Mungo’s had a very competitive shadowing opportunity for several weeks that summer, and interested parties should write right away. Was _that_ what she wanted? When she tried to picture it, her mind summoned up the image of a jovial Healer telling her, “Hey, Evans, Muggle automobile incident with this one, funny, innit? We’ll get him right as rain in minutes…” And then she would freeze up or break down and St. Mungo’s would think her unprofessional and weak-willed, and then she’d have wasted a summer she could have spent filing things for Madam Shafiq. 

But that was stupid, wasn’t it? She ought to apply to both, and let _them_ decide for her. And if she got into both...that was a decision she’d make later, perhaps after speaking to McGonagall again. _Give it just a day_ , she told herself, a day to process and settle her jittering nerves and then she could write to Amanda Plimpey and the St. Mungo’s program and devote her Easter hols to the task of writing letters and polishing her resume.

In an effort to think about something else, Lily turned her mind to the night’s party. The card of paper that mapped the Dodgy Lodgings was in her pocket. In years past she had attended the joint event for Remus’s sake. And she’d always brought him a present, because he was her mate and the reason she was there, and she’d never thought it awkward that she didn’t have anything for James. But now James was also her mate, and, more to the point, _he_ had invited her. Did that mean she ought to get him something? Lily found she had very little to give indeed — and James Potter, who was the son of a famous potioneer, probably had everything he needed anyway. 

She could give him hot chocolate, even if it was a repeat offer. She ought to spike it with Firewhisky, and tell him he was allowed now that he was of age. Smiling to herself at the thought, Lily touched her quill to parchment once more. _The Venomous Tentacula in particular has_ — 

A sharp rapping sound came from the nearest window. She looked up and was startled to see an owl, _her_ owl, knocking at the glass. Frowning, Lily unlatched the window and gathered Peppermint into her arms. Pince would not be pleased if she saw a bird in the library, so she’d have to make this quick.

“Funny, you missed the morning post,” Lily told her owl, stroking his beak as she unfastened the letter tied to his foot. He hooted in response. Her hand stilled as she read the letter.

_5:58 p.m._

James was sitting at the very end of the Gryffindor table at dinner, alone. This was a rare occurrence, of course, but evening Quidditch practice had made him hungrier than usual. So while the other Marauders were setting up the Dodgy Lodgings for later that night, he had leave to feed himself. James had a feeling part of the reason they hadn’t give him shit for it was his recent introduction to the Cruciatus Curse, which made him a touch belligerent. He wasn’t _breakable_. He was about to prove it at his party, by getting magnificently plastered. 

But he was alone. And bored, and Marissa wasn’t at the Ravenclaw table yet, and the oldest students at the Gryffindor one were the Lisas, whom James wanted to avoid. (Lisa Kelsoe kept asking him, perplexingly, how it had felt to be a warthog.) 

He occupied himself by staring at the Entrance Hall through the open doors. A horde of Hufflepuff seventh years were leaving the Great Hall at that instant. Dex Fortescue lingered to speak to Evan Wronecki. So Dex was not looking when Lily came down the stairs, but James was.

It was immediately, patently obvious that something was wrong. He knew this because he had seen Lily cry twice in the past week, and so he recognised her pallor and pink-tinged cheeks. But mostly he knew because she was so... _listless_. Lily Evans, as a rule, was not listless. She was smartly striding, eager beaver, purposeful even when on a casual stroll. But there she was: feet dragging, a letter in one hand, utterly devastated. Yes, something was very wrong. 

James was half out of his seat before he knew it. She looked at him without really seeing him. He could see, in his mind’s eye, himself crossing the distance between them and saying, “What’s happened?” in a low, urgent voice, and he was well prepared to face a crying bird even though crying birds were _terrifying_. (That was growth.)

But James had taken all of two steps when Dex Fortescue turned around, possibly because Evan had said something to him, and noticed Lily. He called her name and hurried towards her and hugged her, and she was crying into his shoulder, just the way she’d cried into James’s on Monday. 

And so he was reminded of the way things stood, and he retook his seat at the table while Lily and her boyfriend went up the staircase. He’d find her later.

* * *

_iii. A Mile, A Must_

_12:31 a.m._

“I’m not crying. It’s an involuntary reaction to the pain,” Mary said as tears streamed down her face.

Sirius laughed, tapping her hand with his wand. “ _Episkey_. Keep it elevated."

"It feels fine."

"Yeah, 'cause my spells work. But you'd better have a shot just in case."

She rolled her eyes, but accepted the Firewhisky he poured her. "Where'd you get this much of it, by the way?"

" _It?_ Be a touch more specific." Sirius tossed back a shot of his own.

" _Alcohol_."

"We charm the pants off Rosmerta and smuggle it in, obviously."

Mary rolled her eyes once more. "How do _normal_ people get this much of it?"

Sirius shrugged. "Same place they get their weed, I suppose."

"Their weed!"

He grinned at her surprise. "Never tried the devil's lettuce, Mac?"

"No," Mary said. Her mother was relaxed, but not nearly _that_ relaxed. She had a feeling that was a line better not crossed. 

"Well, I can tell you why you broke your thumb, if you're interested.”

“Do enlighten me.”

“Yeah, because you’re an idiot who thought to throw a punch in the middle of a party.”

She scowled. “Very funny.”

He grinned. “It’s because you tucked in your thumb.”

Mary swore. “Of course! I didn’t have time to think, and I knew you were supposed to do _something_ important with the thumb, but I couldn’t remember if you ought to tuck it in or not…”

“You made a massive mess of it, but it was hot to watch.” 

He was very close, and smelled of cigarettes, and had very nice grey eyes. Mary jolted back to the present, and glared at him.

“Two steps back, Black. One of us has already snogged one of you tonight, and I don’t fancy repeating that weirdness.”

* * *

_iv. The Weight of Your Load_

_7:37 p.m._

The Portkey was in Professor McGonagall’s office, and it was set to leave at eight o’clock. Lily was early. She supposed she could have gone down to the Great Hall in an effort to catch the tail end of supper. But there would probably be something to eat at home. And if she had the time to spare, well, there was something else she could do. She set her trunk against the wall, hoisted her book bag higher up her shoulder, and reached in her pocket. 

The little business card, ridiculous and gilt-edged and unbearably cute, was still there. She flipped it over to the map, which showed the Dodgy Lodgings were currently off the Serpentine Corridor. Just a flight of stairs away from McGonagall’s office, she thought. Well, that was cutting it close — the boys had better hope the room moved before curfew. But it was perfect for her purposes. Lily made her way to the office, left her trunk outside, and started up the staircase.

The map indicated that the room ought to be where the Lost Wands room usually was. Lily rapped her knuckles against the door, thinking she’d feel very silly indeed if she were knocking away at an empty room.

“One second!” someone called. _Remus_ , she thought, relieved. She could give him his gift and then go.

But when the door swung open, a slightly breathless James emerged. He backed Lily out of the doorway and shut the door behind him.

“Sorry, it’s not ready yet,” he told her. “Hey — are you all right?”

This interrogation was exactly what she’d hoped to avoid. She gave him a small smile. “Perfectly.”

“First of all,” James said, rolling his eyes, “bollocks. That was a trick question. You’re going home.”

Lily opened her mouth and snapped it shut again. “Why am I even surprised you know.”

“Second of all, even if I didn’t know you were going home, I’d be worried based only on how careless you’re being with your possessions right this moment.”

“What?” For a moment she wondered if he meant her trunk, left to the mercies of whoever roamed the first floor.

But he reached for her left hand, flipped it over, and pointed to a small but noticeable scratch in the gold of her brand-new watch. Her mouth fell open, but no noise came out. She looked from the watch to his brilliant, hazel eyes. He arched his eyebrows. 

“You’re going to make me cry,” she said. Of course she’d spoiled the watch. She was going home, and her mother would see her and notice that the watch was already scratched. A lump rose in her throat once more.

He shook his head. “I think you’ve done enough of that for one day. I know a genius invention, this spell called _Reparo_ , and it’ll do the trick here.”

“But magic—”

“Can’t fix everything, yeah. It can’t fix big things, like the past, or — fucking Death Eaters, or Bertram Aubrey’s head. Believe me, I’ve tried.” Lily laughed weakly. “But magic fixes watches. So let me fix yours.”

She nodded, ever so slightly. He held her wrist while reaching for his wand with his other hand. 

“Everything’s gone to shit,” she whispered. “I said awful things to my mates, and I don’t know why. I’m so angry and I don’t — know how to fix this.”

His wand tapped against her watch. The scratch disappeared. She’d remember it had been there, once, and it would always hurt a little for that. But — she’d remember a friend had fixed it too. 

“When you can’t fix it with a spell,” James said presently, letting go of her hand, “you gather up the pieces, I suppose, and make the best of it. And you dump the pieces on your mates, from time to time, when they get difficult to carry.”

Lily looked at her watch, examining it closely for any remaining flaws. This gave her a chance to blink away the tears in her eyes. She thought James Potter had satisfied his crying Lily quota, for this month at the very least. When she looked back at him she had regained her composure, somewhat.

“You know, you hide your wisdom very well,” she said.

His grin was sudden, broad. “Well, I had to stop there. The metaphor was getting shaky.”

She stepped away from him, and then remembered why she’d come in the first place. “Oh! I’m here to give Remus his gift.” She rummaged in her book bag and withdrew a red, brown, and mustard striped scarf. “Perfect replica of the Fourth Doctor’s.”

“I didn’t know Remus knew any Muggle Healers,” James replied, taking the scarf anyway.

Of all the things said to her that day, somehow _this_ made everything _normal_ for a moment. She laughed loudly enough that they were both surprised, the sound echoing up and down the empty corridor. 

“I don’t get why that’s so funny,” he said.

“Ask Remus to explain it.” She glanced down at her watch again. She ought to head down to McGonagall’s office, thank the teacher before the Portkey went off… “And, er, I _did_ have a gift for you, but it’s more — in-person.”

James held up his hands. “Whoa, Evans. _Try_ not to jump my bones constantly.”

“Oh, shut up.” A beat. “You have a girlfriend.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not my girlfriend. Why's everyone telling me that all the time?”

“That makes you sound like a real arse, you know.”

“Ask her, she’d say the same thing. Anyway, don’t tell me about the gift, however salacious it is. I like a good surprise.”

Lily laughed. “Done. And, er, I should go — I have to meet McGonagall—”

“Right—”

She started to walk away, then remembered— “Happy birthday!” She hurried back and pulled him into an awkward sort of hug. When she released him he was blinking at her owlishly.

“Er, thanks. You know — why don’t I walk you? The room’s moved anyway.”

Lily peered at the door curiously. “Has it?”

He waved the card at her. “Yeah, ours get hot when it moves, just so we know when we’ve bounced.”

“The door looks exactly the same.”

“That’s the point, Evans. Filch would catch us if it were that simple.” He fell into step beside her as she made for the staircase. 

“I really am sorry I’m missing it.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “No harm. It’ll only be the best party you haven’t been to.”

“Thanks,” she said wryly. “Are you going home for Easter?”

James sighed. “Part of my punishment for having been cursed by a fucking madman, yeah.”

She winced in sympathy. “But — you get on with your parents, yeah?” 

All she had in recent memory was that day in the Hospital Wing. They hadn’t seemed too pleased with him then, but it had been a tense day overall. Lily still could not regard it without some degree of embarrassment.

He nodded. “Oh, yeah, my folks are great. It’s the principle of the thing.”

She laughed. “Well, have a good holiday.” McGonagall’s office came into view, her trunk still standing outside it. Her temporary humour faded as she steeled herself for the evening ahead. In another life was there a different Lily, one who got to stay and didn’t have to worry about her whole world crumbling?

“Hey, Evans?”

He’d stopped walking; she had drifted on ahead of him, towards McGonagall’s office and the Portkey and whatever came next. Lily stopped and turned to look at him.

“Yeah?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “If you need distracting, over Easter, owl me. Sirius and I will be home, and probably Remus and Peter too.”

She thought back to the Exploding Snap tournament, and smiled. “Go get very drunk, Potter. You’re being too mature, and it’s unnerving as all hell.” Then Lily knocked on McGonagall’s door.

* * *

_v. A Sigh, A Breath_

_11:17 p.m._

“Come here and kiss me,” Doe said.

* * *

_vi. A Sliver of Glass_

_7:34 p.m._

Dorcas fought back tears. “That was unfair of her. Right?” She whirled on Mary and Germaine. “She’s being _unfair_. I didn’t know, and she—”

Germaine sighed. “Look, Doe, she’s upset. Yeah, there was no call for shouting, but she’s not exactly going to be levelheaded.”

Doe sat down, hard, on her bed. “I told her not to start. I _told_ her, but I just—” She threw up her hands. “I don’t have infinite patience, all right? I can’t watch my mates try and be secretive and pretend everything’s all right when it’s clearly not, and most of all I can’t _keep asking!_ Because when it turns out something was wrong all along, I’m the horrible mate who couldn’t figure it out.”

Germaine stepped back, as if stung. “Hey. You’re angry at her, not me.”

Doe shook her head, and now she was really crying. “I’m angry at both of you — all of you, maybe, and I have been for a while. Because I try and I try and I try _so much_ , I’m considerate and patient and kind and it’s never enough, is it? Eventually I’m going to run out, but I don’t bloody want to, because I don’t _want_ to be a bad friend.” She buried her face in her hands.

Mary and Germaine sat down on either side of her, and pried her hands away from her tear-stained face. Doe made herself look at them, at Germaine’s pinched, worried expression and Mary’s placid mask. Her heart _hurt_ for how much she loved them — and as angry and hurt as she was with Lily, she loved her too. She was just stretched thin. And scared all the time, and annoyed that she was scared, and so _worried_ that Lily— No, she wouldn’t let herself think it. It would be all right. 

“You’re not a bad friend,” Germaine said gently. “You’re one of the best people I know.”

“But Lily’s not entirely wrong,” said Mary. “You and her — you’re the same! You can’t fix every problem, Doe.”

Doe’s bone-deep tiredness gave way to a flare of indignation once more. “You’re supposed to be comforting me right now.”

“I’m telling you because I love you, and you told _her_ because you love her,” went on Mary. “You feel worn down and run ragged because of how considerate you are? Well, for Christ’s sakes, be selfish for a minute! Put yourself first, and tell us to fuck off when we demand too much.” 

Germaine had looked uncertain at the start of Mary’s tirade, but she was beginning to nod along.

“But I want to be—” Doe began.

“—a good friend, duh. We _know_. But don’t give more than you can afford to. It’ll only turn you bitter, and we can’t have that, you sugar lump, you.” Mary smiled hopefully.

Doe sighed and dried her tears. “You have to tell me, when something’s going on. Then I won’t bloody pester you about it.” She glanced between them. “Everything’s all right with the two of you, isn’t it? Or — or at least, I _know_ what isn’t all right? Emmeline Vance, and Doc Dearborn.”

Mary avoided her gaze a moment, and Doe stiffened. “Everything’s fine.”

Doe knew she was lying. But she hadn’t the energy to press, not just then. Not when she’d just rowed with one best mate about this exact thing. 

“Okay. Then I’m going to be selfish, and get drunk at the party tonight.”

“Hear, hear,” Mary said, and wrapped her arms around the other two.

* * *

_vii. The Promise of Spring_

_8:14 p.m._

Mary squinted at the little card. “Just down here,” she directed, pointing down a staircase.

Doe frowned. “That’s literally the library, Mare.”

“I _know_ where the library is. But the map says the Dodgy Lodgings are over there, where the library should be.”

Germaine was looking nervously over her shoulder. “Can we just get a move on? I feel like Filch’s gonna catch us any minute.”

“It’s not like we’re breaking curfew,” Mary pointed out, heading for the stairs. 

“Yeah, but he’s going to wonder what we’re doing all dressed up at this time of the day, and where we’re going.”

“Would you rather face Filch or Madam Pince, if she thinks we’re breaking into the library?” Doe said grimly, though she followed Mary.

“Filch,” Mary said immediately.

“Does she sleep in there, d’you think?” Germaine said.

“Probably. Like an indoor gargoyle.” Mary shuddered.

The library’s massive double doors were not locked, but they looked the same as ever.

“Dare we risk it?” Germaine grasped one of the handles.

“ _Yes_ , I said I’m getting drunk tonight, didn’t I?” And Doe pushed the doors open.

The room inside was _not_ the library. It was a spacious common room, its walls a deep blood-red, its furniture — pushed up against said walls — all an imposing dark wood. Torches illuminating the space burned electric-blue over a table laid with drinks. One massive portrait hung in the room, a very drunk satyr its only occupant. A handful of guests had already arrived, Butterbeers in hand, and the Marauders were playing wizard staff. 

“This castle is bloody incredible,” Doe said happily, and the girls made a beeline for the drinks.

_11:21 p.m._

“Jesus Christ,” said Mary.

“I know,” said Doe.

“I mean — _Jesus! Christ!_ ”

“What she said,” Germaine said, eyes wide.

“What — is that going to be a thing now? The two of you?” Mary said, her voice approaching a squeal.

Doe laughed. “Please, relax.”

* * *

_viii. A Thrust, A Bump_

_10:42 p.m._

Mary was on her fourth vodka and orange juice when a Chris-shaped shadow fell over her. She swivelled around and gave him a half-smile. “Hel-lo.” 

She hadn’t seen him, barring classes, since the day they’d found Michael. He’d been a good deal more panicked than her — she’d just about frozen up, but had put herself together by suppertime. From what she’d seen, Chris had been shaky for the next few days, even. But she was sympathetic, not scornful. She wished it’d been the first horrible thing she’d seen. No — if only it hadn’t happened at all, and Michael was okay, and neither of them had had to see anything.

If ifs and buts were Sugar Quills and Knuts, well.

“Hel-lo,” Chris mimicked. “You all right?”

Mary surmised that he meant _all right_ in the actual, big-picture sense, and not just in this moment. “Fine as can be. Focused on getting absolutely pished at present.” She held up her cup. 

He chuckled. “All right. Glad to hear there’s no lasting trauma from that day.”

She cocked her head. “There’s always lasting trauma from interacting with you, Chris.”

She debated saying something else about that day, like _you won’t tell, will you?_ Or, more specifically, _you won’t fucking tell like you told Amelia Bones and started a lifelong enmity, will you?_ But before she could, he’d given her a salute and walked away. She was left only with a twinge of guilt, and a nausea not born of alcohol.

* * *

_ix. A Walkaround_

_3:04 a.m._

“How’d we end up here again?” Peter said, very very slowly, trying his best not to slur. The night chill barely permeated the boys’ comfortable drunken shields. 

Sirius kicked him. “Don’ pull an amnesia stunt, Wormtail. It was _your_ fault.”

“Was not!”

“Pass the lighter?” James said to Remus as the other two bickered. Remus did. James exhaled a mouthful of smoke. _Another year_ , he thought. 

Sirius kicked James. “What’re you sighing for? Marissa shag you into a stupor or something?”

James rolled his eyes and kicked back. “Classy.”

“Honest question.”

Remus chucked the lighter off the Astronomy Tower. The other three boys turned to stare at him. He blinked at them all. 

“I — dunno why I did that,” he said. 

They looked at one another for a long, silent moment, then burst into laughter. 

“ _Accio_ lighter, ’n bless you, Moony,” Sirius said, chortling. “Snogging pretty girls, tossin’ lighters where firsties can find them—” even drunk, even after the lighter had soared into Sirius’s hand, Remus remembered to look stricken “—he’s been replaced by a clone, I reckon.”

“Oh, Merlin,” said Peter, his voice rising in volume and pitch. “How’d we get to the Astronomy Tower?” Sirius groaned. “No — honestly, I’m afraid of heights!”

“No, you’re not,” James said. His smile faded; he wondered if Lily was all right.

Peter’s fear eased. He sat back, nodding. “You’re right. I’m not.”

“Lightweight,” Sirius grumbled. 

* * *

_x. A Fish, A Flash_

_9:25 p.m._

“Happy birthday, wallflower,” Doe said, holding out a cup. “Peter told me to give this to you. But I saw him mix it and it _might_ kill you.”

Remus laughed, straightening and turning away from the record player. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll drink a quarter of it, probably, before he comes up with something worse for me to try.”

She grimaced. “I know the type. Mary’s the resident bartender, except she drinks like a stout, middle-aged Highlander and assumes everyone around her is the same way.”

He eyed her half-full cup of vodka and orange juice. “Is that a Highlander portion?”

“I begged leave to drink like a normal, twentieth-century girl.”

He laughed again, which he didn’t do very often. It softened his wan face. Doe found herself smiling back automatically. 

“That’s what I’d advise, were I sober,” Remus said. 

She scoffed. “You’re not as drunk as that. _Are_ you?” Perhaps he hid it very well. 

He only grinned. “Am I?”

“Recite the alphabet backwards.”

“Christ, I don’t think I could do that sober.”

“I can.”

“I’m not even surprised.”

Doe laughed. “Can I tell you something? I’m feeling a bit confessional and I’m worried I’ll go say something incriminating to someone who’ll blab to the whole party.”

His brows shot up. “Incriminating?”

“Well, that makes it sound bigger than it is.” She took a deep breath. She’d regret this in five minutes, probably, but she was living by impulse tonight, and she _had_ to speak. “I fancy a friend of mine and I don’t know what to do about it and that’s all,” she said, all in a rush. The bit about how she and said friend were currently not speaking felt like too much to add on.

Remus nodded sagely. “Are you looking for advice?”

“Do you have advice to offer?” she said with a touch of desperation. 

“Oh, so much,” he said wryly. “James would say leap of faith, tell your mate. Sirius would say leap of faith, snog your mate. Peter would say find out who your mate fancies. Lily would say find out what you can about your mate and then decide if you should tell them. Mary would also say snog your mate. Sara would say charm the pants off them — figuratively, that is. Germaine would say…” He frowned. “Germaine would say _don’t_ snog them, but do find out if they fancy you back.”

“Observant,” Doe said, “but none of that’s _your_ advice.”

His smile faded. “I’d do nothing, probably,” he said, perfectly matter-of-fact. 

“Oh.” Doe looked at her feet, cursing herself for prodding. “Well — thank you for listening, and making sure the whole school doesn’t know my silly thoughts.”

“Any time. Want to pick the next record?”

* * *

_xi. Feeling Alone_

_7:29 p.m._

“Well, what _is_ it, Lily?” Mary cried. Lily didn’t even pause what she was doing: piling clothes back into her trunk. Toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo. The stream of tears had dried up at some point that evening, some point in between Dex and McGonagall and — and, had she eaten dinner? No, but she didn’t feel hungry at all, or maybe the hunger had turned to lightheadedness. She did feel a bit dizzy.

As if she’d spoken this thought aloud, Mary took her by the shoulders and sat her down on the nearest bed.

“Don’t fucking move,” Mary said. “I’m telling McGonagall one of us needs permission to go with you.”

“ _No_ ,” said Lily, in a voice that sounded utterly unlike her own. “For God’s sake, can you just let me finish packing?”

“Lily, you’re being so scary right now,” Germaine said quietly. “Please tell us what’s wrong so we can _help_.”

She’d jumped off the bed and skirted around Mary to get at her trunk again. That was enough clothes to get by for Easter — for a crazed moment Lily thought, _what if I never come back?_ She glanced around her dorm. Her friends were frozen in this tableau: Mary, jaw clenched, standing by her bed. Germaine, sitting with her knees pulled to her chest, looking so _small_. Doe, by the dresser, fidgeting with her fingers in the way she did when she was working up her nerve.

Everything was divided into befores and afters. The afternoon her father had driven off: curled up in the common room, Carole King on the record player, the hours before the owl reached Professor McGonagall. The moment at the Lake, or the split second before it, when everything seemed suspended in amber just as Severus hung by his ankle. That afternoon, as she considered summer plans and gifts and dates. This dorm — this scene — was an after, now.

“Lily, we can’t let you go like this,” Doe said softly.

Oh, she’d had such a temper as a child. She’d outgrown it, mostly, but she still had her moments. Shouting _arrogant toerag_ at James last year — or, well, shouting _pigheaded and idiotic_ at him last week. Lily turned very slowly and felt that old anger rise up in her throat.

“For once in your life, Dorcas, stop mothering me,” she said, voice stony.

Doe looked as if she’d been slapped across the face. “What?”

“It’s fine. I said it’s _fine_ , didn’t I?” She shoved her socks into her trunk with more force than was necessary.

“Well, it’s clearly not—”

“Can you listen to what I say instead of treating me like a child who doesn’t understand her own feelings?”

“Lily,” Doe said, clearly trying to keep her voice under control, “I don’t want to have this conversation while you’re hurting.”

“What conversation?” Lily snapped. “If you have something to say to me, then bloody well say it!”

Doe threw her hands up, _what the hell_. “Fine! Fine, you’re _not_ a child who doesn’t understand her own feelings. But you’re doing a terrible job of being an adult. You love saving people, but you’ll beat yourself up about the smallest things, and you won’t _talk_ about them!”

Lily scoffed. “Is that all?”

“No!” Doe shouted. “Because you slept with Dex and he was shitty to you about it, and you only told Germaine—”

Lily shot Germaine a dark look. “Really?”

Germaine made a noise of helplessness. “I was out of my bloody depth!”

“—and then you said you needed a break and we all asked if you wanted to talk about it,” Doe said, undeterred by this aside, “but you didn’t. And _now_ you’re steady again and we have no idea why. You fought with Snape and you didn't tell us what happened. And you told James off because you think it was _your_ fault Mulciber cursed him, but you won’t say a word about why it’s upsetting you so much! I had to ask _him_ , you know, and he told me it was for _you_ to share. You’re not going to, though.” 

Doe took a deep breath and looked Lily square in the eye. She stared back, defiant. “Tell me, do you _like_ being a martyr? Because it’s so painful to watch, Lily! And I’ll be perfectly honest, _I’m_ worried about you going home when your sister’s a bitch—”

“Lay off my sister,” Lily ground out, a lump of emotion rising in her throat. She was _not_ playing the martyr.

“ _No_ ,” Doe said again, “I will not, and we all think she’s going to be a bitch to you when something really bad’s happened, and it’ll just mess you up even more, and you’ll clam up even tighter—”

“Is that what you all think of me?” Lily stood, her hands shaking. “That I’m — messed up, that I’m secretive? Well, I don’t complain because I fucking _hate_ complaining. Because I’ve got so much going for me, and it’s selfish to pretend I don’t, and most of all I have _magic_ , and I need to be grateful for this life every moment of every day, all right? And every time I’m a brat I’m so bloody _scared_ the universe will think I’m taking it all for granted. And then I’ll lose it all.” 

Her voice broke; her next breath was a sob. “Is that what you want to hear? Well—” with a savage burst of energy “—well, I’ll disclose every little problem I have now, because Mum’s really, really ill and I suppose I have nothing left to lose!” She spread out her arms, _ta da!_

Through the tears blurring her vision she saw Doe soften. “Oh, _Lily_ ,” she said.

“Don’t. Do not ‘oh, Lily’ me, I swear I’ll—” But she couldn’t think what she’d do. She slammed her trunk shut and wiped furiously at her wet cheeks. It was all coming down around her ears. She could already envision Petunia’s accusing stare, hear her trembling voice. _Didn’t that school of yours teach you anything?_

_Fix it, Lily, because you can fix everything. Fix it because Mum and Dad always said you’re their magical girl, their_ miracle _girl. And last time you were thirteen and could be forgiven for being scared and not knowing enough, but you’re seventeen and nearly done with school and a grown woman now, so_ what _are you going to do?_

What was she going to do? _God_ , what was she going to _do_?

If she sat down she wouldn’t be able to get back up. She could feel the weakness in her knees. But she had to go, because there was no time to waste. She righted her trunk and avoided her friends’ embraces.

“Just let me go,” she said tonelessly. “Let me go to my bitchy sister and dying mother, and then when I get back we can talk about how I like to play the martyr.”

“I’m _so_ —” Doe began.

“Don’t say you’re sorry! Just — go back to talking about how to help poor Lily, all right? I’m sure you’ll have a grand fucking plan going. God knows I’ll need someone to mother hen me after my actual one’s gone.” 

And because it was so much easier to be angry than to say sorry, so much easier to rage than to weep — because there was one person Lily wanted to cry to, but _she_ would need comforting when they were together — Lily stormed out of the girls’ dormitory and did not look back.

* * *

_xii. A Ray in the Sun_

_8:48 p.m._

“To tell the truth, I’m afraid of seeing Emmeline,” Germaine said in a whisper. 

The girls were by the drinks table, where Mary was happily pawing through various Muggle brands of vodka. When she’d finally found what she wanted, she poured them each a portion and mixed in orange juice. Germaine drank, and was quite surprised to find that she liked it.

“We-ell,” Doe said, singsong, throwing an arm around Germaine’s shoulders and squeezing, “lucky for you, she isn’t coming.”

“Really? How d’you know?”

Doe shrugged modestly. “Remus said she’s patrolling tonight. See, no Gaurav Singh either.”

Her shoulders sagged in relief. But then— “You don’t think she’s told anyone, do you?”

Doe and Mary exchanged glances.

“Maybe Amelia,” Mary said quietly.

Germaine groaned. “Of all the bloody people.”

“She _is_ her best mate,” said Doe.

“Yes!” Mary pumped a fist in the air. “I knew you’d join the club eventually.”

“The club,” Doe repeated, rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, the anti-Amelia club. There’s badges and everything.”

“I’ll join the club if Amelia looks at me funny,” Germaine mumbled.

Mary gripped her shoulder and looked at her very seriously. “If Amelia looks at you funny, I’ll deck her.”

Germaine burst into laughter. “Yeah, all right, Mare. You have my blessing.”

* * *

_xiii. A Jolt, A Jump_

_12:27 a.m._

“It’s funny,” said Amelia Bones, “how you pretend not to be such a whore.”

Mary resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Every day I’m reminded of what a class act you are, Amelia. Kindly fuck off.”

Amelia’s eyes glittered with malice. Neither girl was very steady on her feet, as a very rowdy drinking game had just been played, the rules of which Mary could not have explained. It was the third round of said drinking game. Wait, no, the fourth.

Maybe that was why she was so drunk. 

Regardless, Mary wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this conversation. The alcohol was enough to numb the persistent sense of fear, playing in the back of her mind like a record in another room, that she’d felt since she’d found Michael Meadowes unconscious and bleeding in the sixth floor corridor. But, as it turned out, the alcohol was _not_ enough to overwhelm the vague guilt of bad decisions made. And Amelia Bones always reminded her of bad decisions.

“I’m not going anywhere until you admit to me what you did,” Amelia said. “My eyebrow-growing jinx has become loads better, but I don’t get enough practice.”

Mary levelled an evaluating stare at the other girl. Amelia was drunk, yes, but she seemed fully convinced that whatever she was saying was the truth. So Chris must have told, the loudmouthed buffoon. Again! _Bad decisions, bad decisions_ , Mary’s brain sang. It had been a moment of weakness. It had been...well, it had been stupid and awful, and she did feel bad for the Duckling.

But if Chris had told Amelia, why hadn’t Amelia gone and told Cecily? Why wasn’t Cecily doing the confronting herself? Why, for that matter, had Cecily not said anything during their Arithmancy study sessions?

“I really have no idea what you’re on about,” said Mary, because she wasn’t about to admit to anything, especially when the girl accusing her was decidedly _not_ the wronged party. 

“Don’t you?” Amelia laughed. “Well, it’s no wonder Doc won’t give you the time of day. I bet you’ve been through all of his mates.”

Mary snorted. “Please. As if he’s a paragon of virtue. Ask him if he was seeing anyone when _he_ snogged _me_ last year.”

Almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. She wasn’t entirely sure that Doc had cheated on Marissa with her. But she was just drunk enough to speak without thinking, and just sober enough to stop herself from adding, _shit_. 

Amelia looked sceptical. “That’s neither here nor there,” she said. “Point is, you have the morals of a—”

This was the last bloody straw. “For God’s sake, Amelia! When are you going to let it _go_? You’ve been on my arse about Chris since we were fourteen. I’ve said I’m sorry, and I wish I hadn’t done it, and you harp on and on about _doing what’s right_ but all that matters is you want to hold a grudge.”

“Oh, I’d love to let it go! But you’re the one with the grudge against _me_. When Steve told me, I thought for certain—”

“When _Steve_ told you?” Mary interrupted. “What the fuck did Stephen Fawcett tell you?” None of this was making any sense. All she wanted to do was go find her mates and put every last memory of Amelia bloody Bones behind her.

“You’re not stupid, Macdonald, so save us the act. Steve admitted you two snogged—”

Mary shook her head. “Wait, what? No, hang on, I actually haven’t snogged him — not since last year. I don’t know what he’s been telling you—” 

But then it clicked. What had Chris said that day, when he’d jumped her in the corridor? That Cecily had kissed a seventh year, so he deserved a snog plus tax? _Cecily_ had snogged Stephen Fawcett, the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain, and one or the other of them had come up with this clever scheme to pin the act on _her_ , Mary, whom Amelia hated anyway. A slow smile spread across her face.

“Oh, that’s rich. That’s bloody brilliant,” she said, laughing now.

“What is?” Amelia looked part confused, part furious that Mary no longer seemed worried.

“You’ll find out. And when you do, it’ll be perfect. Just, er, warn me before you blow up at the _right_ person, so I can stand by to say you’re a fucking idiot. Now, I’m going to take my whore self to my mates, if you’ll excuse me.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed. It was the look of someone preparing a verbal sucker punch, a look Mary knew well. She braced herself, but even then she was not ready for the words that came out of the other girl’s mouth.

“Which mate?” Amelia said sweetly. “The prude, the golden girl, or the freak lesbian?”

Oh, Mary had been _so_ wrong. _This_ was the last bloody straw.

“She is _not_ a freak, you ignorant twat,” she said, her voice even and controlled.

The party was in full swing around them. Mary’s own _Rumours_ record was playing, probably Remus’s doing — she’d given him her whole stack at the start of the night, and said, “Go wild.” Clearly he’d just put it on, because “Second Hand News” warbled through the room. _What a perfect song to have a row to_ , Mary thought, because she had an acute sense of dramatics.

And right there and then, just as Lindsey Buckingham sang, “Do it, do it, do it!” Mary Macdonald clenched her left hand into a fist and punched Amelia Bones clean in the jaw.

* * *

_xiv. The Curve of the Slope_

_11:03 p.m._

“This round’s loser kisses the birthday boy,” Sirius shouted.

“That one, not me,” James added, pointing at Remus.

“ _Loser?_ ” Isobel Park said, laughing. “I thought you were supposed to be nice to people on their birthdays.”

“It’s not technically his birthday,” Sirius said primly.

“It’s my party, though, isn’t it?” Remus said, but he only sounded a touch amused. 

Dorcas batted a hand at Sirius. “Don’t be a prick, Black. I know it takes effort for you, but you can try, at least. Besides, you’re incentivising people to lose.”

Sirius whistled. “Are you saying Moony’s a catch, Walker? Are you saying you want to snog Moony? That’s what I’m hearing.”

Doe rolled her eyes. “You’re such a child.” She picked up a drink. “Are we going, or what?”

“Fine. _You’re_ the loser’s prize, Dork-ass. Take that.”

“This is the best and most efficient way to get a sexually transmitted disease,” Germaine said.

* * *

_xv. The Steps Down the Hall_

_12:33 a.m._

“Well, walking a girl to the Hospital Wing for a bruised jaw was _not_ something I envisioned would be part of tonight,” Marissa said as she and James reentered the Dodgy Lodgings. “And she wouldn’t even say who’d done it.”

James surveyed the room. He could see Sirius in a corner with Mary Macdonald, and he did not want Marissa to see what he saw. Not that he thought Amelia Bones deserved a punch to the face. But he sensed that to delve into those dramatics just then would derail the party, and since the two had been separated and taken care of there was no need to get Marissa involved. Especially given the latent issue of Mary having snogged Marissa’s ex-boyfriend and best mate. 

Merlin, Hogwarts was too small.

“We’ll figure it out eventually,” he said.

Marissa smiled. “Thanks for walking with me.”

“’Course. I was being a good host, wasn’t I?”

She laughed and kissed him. “Did you notice we’re by Ravenclaw Tower?”

His brows shot up. “I — did, actually.”

They walked right back out.

* * *

_xvi. A Wish, A Wing_

_11:16 p.m._

“Right, well, I’ll be waiting over there,” Doe said, backing away from the group playing the drinking game. Plenty of _ooh_ s followed her, none louder than Sirius’s.

“Them’s the rules,” he said.

“It’s insulting that this is _loser’s prize_ ,” Remus said, to Sirius and to Dorcas and to the group at large.

“Clock’s ticking!” Doe shouted. She’d made her way to the record player, which was currently midway through “Misery” on _Please Please Me_. _That_ was the wrong song; she flicked the needle back to “Boys.” Then she sat down in an overstuffed armchair and waited.

“No one’s looking,” Remus said when he’d come close enough for her to hear his whisper. “We can just call it a done deal.”

She blinked, quite surprised. “Oh, d’you really not want to snog me? I mean, it’s fine if you don’t.”

Remus looked quite flushed, and she didn’t think it was only the alcohol. “No, it’s not that I don’t — I mean, I don’t want you to feel like you’re being forced into it because of this stupid game—”

“Well, no, if I felt like that I would’ve said _I_ didn’t want to kiss _you_.” This was either the Firewhisky talking, or her inner Mary Macdonald. Oh, Mary would be _so_ pleased to know that Doe apparently had an inner Mary Macdonald.

Remus was frowning now, though it seemed a bemused sort of frown. “So you don’t not want to? Even though, with what you said about—”

She laughed. There were far worse decisions to make. “I definitely don’t not want to, Remus.”

“Because I’m not James.” 

Wait, what? “I...don’t follow.” 

“I mean, I don’t do that — snog someone else, when you really want to snog—”

Doe nodded in understanding, waving a hand. “You mean you’re not Marissa Beasley.”

“Oh. Yeah, you’re right, I mixed up that analogy.” 

She stood, and he backed up a step, and they were only a few feet apart. There were far, far worse decisions to make.

“You needn’t worry,” she said. “ _I’m_ not James.”

He smiled. “Right, then. So—”

“So, if you want to, then I want you to.” She giggled; they were talking in circles, it seemed. “Come here and kiss me.”

_11:19 p.m._

“Well,” said Remus.

“Well,” said Doe.

“Well—”

Doe couldn’t hold back her giggling. “Well, that was nice, but I do think it was a one-time thing.”

He gave her a dry smile. “I was thinking of a polite way to phrase that.”

* * *

_xvii. The Mystery of Life_

_3:00 a.m._

“Heeere’s the door—” Peter wrenched open the door in question, waiting for the Dodgy Lodgings to appear on the other side. 

They were atop the Astronomy Tower. 

“That’s not right,” Peter said, frowning. 

“Knew one of us should’ve waited inside while the others…” Remus yawned. “While the others moved the — the things, back to the place.”

“Oh, well.” James dropped to the ground and took out his pack of smokes. “Might as well sit.”

“And if someone else finds the Dodgy Lodgings?” Remus said, sitting down beside him anyway. 

“Eh. They ought to have a Firewhisky and thank us,” quipped Sirius, flopping to the floor too. 

* * *

_xviii. A Reason for Hope_

_7:42 p.m._

“One second!” Remus said.

James stood up so quickly he nearly lost balance, shoving the map into his pocket. “Nah, mate, I got it.” He jogged to the door ahead of his mates and pulled it open. There Lily was, a little disheveled, in Muggle clothes instead of her uniform, and still a little pink from crying. 

He’d felt like a bit of a stalker, watching her on the map after he’d seen her in the Entrance Hall. She went from Fortescue to McGonagall — for quite a while — and then back to her dorm. At no point had he thought he should butt in and ask questions. But she’d come here.

“Sorry, it’s not ready yet,” he said, stepping out and shutting the door behind him. And because he couldn’t hold in the question any longer: “Hey — are you all right?”

Her smile was weak. “Perfectly.”

Well, if he had to say it, he would. “First of all, bollocks. That was a trick question. You’re going home.” Why else would she have spent so long in McGonagall’s office? And if she _was_ going home, it had to be something really bad. Something to do with family.

Lily looked resigned to this whole conversation. “Why am I even surprised you know.”

His gaze flitted to her wrist, then back to her face. “Second of all, even if I didn’t know you were going home, I’d be worried based only on how careless you’re being with your possessions right this moment.”

“What?” A crease appeared on her forehead. 

He sighed and reached for her wrist, holding it so that her scratched watch faced her. The distress on her face was immediate, piercing. James almost regretted it. But she’d notice eventually — better now, right away, than when she was alone.

“You’re going to make me cry,” she said, voice wavering.

Oh, no, he wouldn’t. James still did not enjoy being around crying girls, and, as he’d discovered when she’d shouted at him in the Hospital Wing, he liked it even less when _he_ was the reason (however misguided) they were crying. 

“I think you’ve done enough of that for one day,” he said firmly. “I know this genius invention, this spell called _Reparo_ , and it’ll do the trick here.”

That frown again. “But magic—”

“Can’t fix everything, yeah. It can’t fix big things, like the past, or — fucking Death Eaters, or Bertram Aubrey’s head. Believe me, I’ve tried.” To his immense relief, she laughed at this crack. “But magic fixes watches. So let me fix yours.”

She nodded, and he smiled. Thank goodness, because he’d have had no idea what to do if she’d shouted no and cried anyway. James fished out his wand, not letting go of her hand because he thought for a moment that she’d run off if he did. But when her expression twisted into sadness, she stayed, and she spoke. 

“Everything’s gone to shit.” Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. “I said awful things to my mates, and I don’t know why. I’m so angry and I don’t — know how to fix this.”

James cast the spell nonverbally, so he’d not have to speak until he knew exactly what to say. He thought of his mother, standing at the door of their house and watching guests Apparate away. He knew unfixable anger, and he knew it well.

“When you can’t fix it with a spell, you gather up the pieces, I suppose, and make the best of it. And you dump the pieces on your mates, from time to time, when they get difficult to carry.” 

He looked at her, to see if she really was listening. She looked away, down at the repaired watch. When she met his gaze she was no longer teary.

“You know—” a faint, sideways smile “—you hide your wisdom very well.”

“Well, I had to stop there,” James said, grinning. “The metaphor was getting shaky.”

She backed away; only then was he conscious of how close they’d been standing. Then she was reaching into her bag. “Oh! I’m here to give Remus his gift. Perfect replica of the Fourth Doctor’s.”

He took the scarf she held out, frowning. “I didn’t know Remus knew any Muggle Healers.”

Unexpectedly, she laughed, a big-belly laugh that nevertheless still contained a snort element. James was so perplexed by the joke he didn’t even remark on the snort.

“I don’t get why that’s so funny.”

“Ask Remus to explain it.” Lily’s mirth faded somewhat, turning to sheepishness. “And, er, I _did_ have a gift for you, but it’s more — in-person.”

He feigned surprise and held up his hands. “Whoa, Evans. _Try_ not to jump my bones constantly.”

“Oh, shut up.” She was shaking her head, smiling. “You have a girlfriend.”

That wasn’t an accurate assessment at all; James rolled his eyes. “Not my girlfriend. Why's everyone telling me that all the time?”

She arched an eyebrow. “That makes you sound like a real arse, you know.” 

Well, he did know that. It didn’t make it any less true. “Ask her, she’d say the same thing. Anyway, don’t tell me about the gift, however salacious it is. I like a good surprise.”

She laughed once more. “Done. And, er, I should go — I have to meet McGonagall—”

“Right,” he said quickly.

He stood there as she walked away — and then, all of a sudden, she was turning back, wrapping her arms around him as she said “Happy birthday!” 

James cleared his throat when she’d let go. What was the point of a bird helping him get over her when she did maddening things like this? 

Before he’d had a chance to think better of it, he was saying, “Er, thanks. You know — why don’t I walk you? The room’s moved anyway.”

She squinted at the door as if she didn’t quite believe him. “Has it?”

He had his own card handy; he waved it at her. “Yeah, ours get hot when it moves, just so we know when we’ve bounced.”

“The door looks exactly the same.” 

He rolled his eyes and began walking. “That’s the point, Evans. Filch would catch us if it were that simple.” 

“I really am sorry I’m missing it,” Lily said, sounding far too regretful about a stupid birthday party.

He shrugged, smiling. “No harm. It’ll only be the best party you haven’t been to.”

“ _Thanks_. Are you going home for Easter?”

James heaved a sigh, though he did not mind so much. It was the most bearable part of his mother’s conditions. “Part of my punishment for having been cursed by a fucking madman, yeah.”

“But — you get on with your parents, yeah?” 

“Oh, yeah, my folks are great. It’s the principle of the thing.”

She laughed, as he’d hoped she would. “Well, have a good holiday.” 

They were at McGonagall’s office already. James let Lily walk a few paces ahead of him, thinking he ought to say goodbye and go back before the party started. But he could see the trepidation on her face.

“Hey, Evans?”

She stopped and turned around, her ponytail swinging. “Yeah?”

“If you need distracting, over Easter, owl me. Sirius and I will be home, and probably Remus and Peter too.” This offer was made sincerely. What mates do for each other, he told himself.

She tilted her head and smiled. “Go get very drunk, Potter. You’re being too mature, and it’s unnerving as all hell.” 

He smiled back, though she wasn’t looking. Turning on his heel, James went back up the staircase and to the Lost Wands room. When he opened the door, he stood in the nearly-finished Dodgy Lodgings, not the lost and found.

“Where did you get off to?” Sirius said.

“Nowhere,” James said, handing a confused Remus the scarf and busying himself with the drinks.

* * *

_xix. The End of the Tale_

_8:01 p.m._

The Portkey had been a little pewter cup — perhaps the first thing McGonagall had found that would do. Lily opened her eyes in her own shadowed back garden, the cup in her hand. She paused to shove it in her bag so that she could return it to the professor later. Then she took a deep breath and knocked on the kitchen door.

Petunia opened it, pale but stoically not teary. Lily did not hesitate; she pulled her sister in for a hug, unable to suppress a dry sob. Petunia held her for a moment, and Lily was so glad, so relieved to be held by family that she could have forgotten all the years of bitterness between them. She could have forgotten why she was there at all.

Petunia broke away first, waving Lily through the kitchen.

“Is she—” Lily started.

“In bed. She wanted to stay awake to say hello to you, but she’s been tired of late.”

Lily nodded, frozen in the hall with one hand still on her trunk, the other on the banister. The house was quieter than it normally was at this time of the night, but other than that nothing was out of place. The kitchen clock ticked away, audible from where she stood. She wondered if she ought to go say hello to her mother, or sit by her side for a while. She’d need to haul her trunk up the stairs first, and wash up — though there had been no _journey_ , it felt odd to arrive anywhere without cleaning up after.

And then, with a start, Lily realised she didn’t need to drag her trunk up the stairs: she could levitate it. She was seventeen, and she could do magic anywhere now. She’d been here only three months before, but everything had changed since. It only looked the same.

“Lily, you’re getting the hall muddy,” Petunia called.

So she was, from trooping through the garden. “Sorry. I’ll just — I’m tired, I think I’ll head upstairs.”

“Did you eat supper?”

“Not hungry.”

“Well, all right. Will you be up early?”

“I expect so.” If she slept at all, that was.

Lily groped for her wand and pointed it at her trunk, thinking _Wingardium Leviosa_. The trunk lifted a foot off the ground. There she was, doing magic of her own volition in her childhood home. It seemed the surreal horror of this situation could not dampen the thrill it gave her. But it felt _wrong_ , to be delighted by magic at a time like this. Because it couldn’t fix her mother. 

_Gather up the pieces_ , Lily reminded herself. She took two steps up the staircase, her trunk floating in front of her.

A suppressed gasp from behind her. “Someone will see,” Petunia hissed. “The window—”

“The curtains are drawn, Tuney,” said Lily wearily. “No one’s going to see anything, and unless you want to carry my trunk up, this is easiest on both of us.” Her sister made no response to that. Lily took another three steps up. The dim light above the stairs caught the brilliant gold edge of her newly-mended watch. She looked back.

“Thank you, by the way. It was sweet of you, remembering about the watch,” she said.

Petunia frowned, her eyes still locked on the levitating trunk. “The what?”

“The watch. My birthday gift?” When Petunia did not seem to follow, Lily said, “You told Mum it’s a wizarding tradition.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” came the stiff reply. She looked peeved, as she tended to with the mention of magic, but she still looked genuinely confused. At once everything became clear. “I don’t keep track of your funny traditions.” And Petunia whirled around, disappearing into the kitchen once more.

The trunk dropped with a dull _thunk_. Lily carried it the rest of the way. 

She found herself quite awake, once she’d stowed her trunk away and methodically moved her clothes to her dresser. She cracked open the window behind her bed, which looked out onto the narrow lane behind the house. Cokeworth was quiet, the silence broken only by Peppermint, who sat on her nightstand and occasionally hooted at her mournfully. Lily opened the compartment of her trunk that contained her chocolate, pulled out the bag of it that she’d already grated and the bottles of cream and milk still under a preserving charm. 

She heated the milk in its little pan with a murmured spell, melted in the chocolate, whisked in the cream. A dusty mug sat on her nightstand; one _Scourgify_ later, she poured the hot chocolate into it and crossed her legs on the rug, leaning back against her bed. The simple ritual brought her back to herself, the first time all day she felt really, truly settled. 

She missed her father.

Crawling back towards her trunk, Lily pulled out a sheaf of unused parchment and a spare quill. _Dear Doe_ , she began, _I am so, so sorry_. She scratched it out, frowning. _Dear Doe, I don’t know what came over me._ But it all felt trite, and insincere, and she wished she could see her friends and apologise in person for her horrible blow-up. She wished she could explain why shouting felt better than crying. 

She balled up the parchment and tossed it aside. She needed to write something low-stakes first. Picking up her quill again, Lily reached for fresh parchment.

_6:59 a.m., the next morning_

“Early morning?” the Fat Lady said disapprovingly.

“Mornin’ run,” James said, trying and failing to smooth down his sleep-rumpled hair.

“All four of you?”

“Yeah,” Peter whispered, clutching his forehead.

Remus was smothering a smile. “We like to watch the sunrise over the lake. _In vere_.” 

The Fat Lady humphed, but the portrait swung open at the password. The Marauders stumbled through the common room, stifling yawns. It is a testament to the ability of teenage boys to sleep wherever they end the night that they did not collapse on the spot — with the blanket of copious amounts of alcohol keeping them warm, the top of the Astronomy Tower was quite a comfortable place to sleep. They managed to make it to their dormitory, where three out of four of them promptly fell into bed.

James made to follow, but caught sight of a rolled-up scroll of parchment on his desk. The window had been left open — Sirius, he thought, rolling his eyes, had been smoking in here. He very nearly ignored it and went to bed anyway, but curiosity got the better of him. He swallowed what felt like the tenth yawn that morning and untied the letter.

He scanned it once, twice, and smiled faintly. He grabbed a quill and a parchment, jotting a hasty response. It was a two-minute trip to the Owlery to send it off. Only then did James return to his dorm, crawl under the covers, and fall quickly into a heavy, dreamless sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope the non-chronological layout wasn't too confusing! this chapter was SO much fun to write, and i loved juxtaposing the beautiful "waters of march" (i listen to the anya marina version) with the chaos of this party. for more apt music, "take me to a higher plane" by kate nash and "second hand news" by fleetwood mac (apparently mary's fight song??) were my go-tos. as for poor lily, blame the new taylor swift for all her sad vibes, but "invisible string" really forced me to write that extra shippy ending.
> 
> i promise you will better understand lily's anger/response in the next chapter, which is going to be a huge load of feels. i knew lily's arc was going to lead to this place way back in january, but i could never have anticipated a global health crisis in real life as her mother falls ill. so be warned that this next chapter is going to be Heavy, especially in the grief/death/illness regard. however, it will also contain a shippy section i started writing months ago which i am very excited about! it is the longest chapter so far and two (2) teasers will appear in it, so get ready :)
> 
> some more housekeeping: i caved and made some character lists on my tumblr (@thequibblah). there is a non-spoiler version (aka summarising things you know in chapter one) and an up to date version i will add to with every new chapter. i don't know if this is useful to anyone but it was fun for me lol.
> 
> in the process, though, i realised how many characters this fic has grown to include, and just wanted to say another big big thanks for your investment in my random ocs and their dramas. that's always the style of fic i enjoy reading, and i knew it was going to be the kind of thing i wrote, but it never really occurred to me that other people might feel differently HAHA so thanks for putting up with that! those of you who've sent me kind messages on tumblr, especially, you're so sweet <3 feel free to drop me an ask over there — i do love getting fic prompts, so don't be shy! they just might be a bit slower than usual because i want to get ahead on this fic first.
> 
> i *know* germaine has been a bit absent the past few chapters but she is coping and she will return :)
> 
> as always, take care, and thanks for reading. leave a comment if you enjoyed!
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	22. Lily of the Valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Lily learns her mother is very ill and goes home early before Easter, missing the James and Remus party. She argues with her friends before going and has a heart-to-heart of sorts with James. Doe, upset about what Lily said, gets drunk at the party and kisses Remus. It's fine but they're not into it. Mary punches Amelia Bones for calling Germaine a freak. 
> 
> NOW: Lily tries to deal with her mother's sickness, seeks a distraction, and makes a big mistake. Or does she?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're welcome! And...I'm sorry. 
> 
> As I mentioned, this chapter has a lot of heavy stuff about illness and death, so please tread carefully.

_i. Wondergirl_

Lily Evans was a special little girl. 

Not in the way every little girl was special — although, according to her doting father, she was special like that too. Lily Evans was special because she could do magic. Her big sister Petunia could do it too. On long, hot summer days like this one, the girls pretended all afternoon in the grubby Cokeworth playground. They were knights, they were princesses, they were working girls in London getting by on their office jobs.

But most often, they could do magic.

Petunia was dignified, even for a little girl. She had seen things Lily hadn’t — school, for instance — and she moved with the air of a child who knew more than she let on. Of course, _her_ secrets were Lily’s too. That was the way of the Evans girls.

When Lily was five, funny things began to happen. Of course, as a special girl, she was not surprised by these happenings. When she was angry during supper, the kitchen lights would flicker. When she was cold and afraid in her tiny bedroom, the sound of the wind would sometimes muffle itself, as though she’d turned down a volume dial. But the first big thing — the first undeniable thing — happened when Lily was six and a half years old. 

She was a girl with spunk, with energy. She did not _walk_ , like her sister did; she barrelled from place to place, and was often in trouble for running in the halls at school. She was talkative, and answered the teachers’ questions so often that she had to be gently reminded to let other children have a go. Lily moved with all the power and confidence of a child whose world seemed perfectly flawless. Perfectly undisturbed by turmoil.

Perfect.

Until the first undeniable thing, that is. The sisters were playing in the small back garden of the Evans house, which Doris had only recently begun to cultivate. Lily wanted to troop around the flowers with the force of a small hurricane. Petunia reminded her to step lightly. 

“I,” the elder girl said, “am the queen of the flowers, so you ought to do what I say.”

Lily scowled, pausing her prancing. “You are not! I want to be queen.”

Petunia sniffed. “You can be a princess.”

“No, Tuney, I want to be a _queen_.”

“Well, I’m bigger, so I get to be queen first!”

Had Doris Evans been in the kitchen just then, she might have hushed the girls and changed the course of fate. That is, only temporarily. Some things are undeniable, and one undeniable thing was that Lily Evans was special. Different. _More._

Currently, Lily crossed her chubby arms across her chest and stamped one foot. “I want to! I want to be queen and you’re not fair!”

Petunia was not very forgiving of her younger sister’s tantrums, and this one was no exception. “You’ll have to wait,” she retorted. “I came first, didn’t I? You came second. So you’ll have to wait.”

“I won’t!” Lily shouted. “ _I’m_ the queen of the flowers!”

And as she shook her clenched fists, the budding flowers in the garden turned, slowly but surely, towards her. Petunia gasped, went pale. The dispute was at once forgotten.

“You’re doing _magic_ ,” Petunia said, pointing.

Lily looked, saw the flowers facing her like an attentive audience. She smiled. She was the queen of the flowers, after all.

> _Hey Evans,_
> 
> _You missed a bloody great night. It’s all right, we’ll outdo ourselves next year so you’ll have that, at least. I expect you’ve already heard from the girls, but Amelia Bones got socked in the face during it. (Don’t tell, but I suspect one Mary Macdonald.) We set off some fireworks, definitely drank too much, and ended up losing the Dodgy Lodgings at the end. All behaviour you would thoroughly disapprove of. How’re things at home?_
> 
> _J_

> _James,_
> 
> _Mary_ _punched_ _Amelia? It all sounds like the height of debauchery to me. Glad you made it out in one piece._
> 
> _Things at home aren’t great. I don’t think I ever told you what’s actually happening. Mum’s ill. It’s advanced breast cancer, and she could do chemotherapy, but it’s really bad. Bad enough that she doesn’t think it’s worth it, so she’d rather just enjoy what time she has left._
> 
> _Which is not much, to really spell it out._
> 
> _I should’ve known. She was so tired all the time over Christmas. But she’s been going to her checkups. Apparently she found out in January. She didn’t want to worry Petunia and me, so she didn’t tell until she had to._
> 
> _Is it wrong to be angry at her? Because I am. I can’t believe she didn’t say anything. I’m her daughter, I’m supposed to worry about her health. And I can’t believe she didn’t go to an oncologist (that’s a doctor for cancer) for ages, even after she thought she had it. I suppose I should be a lot more sympathetic, but maybe I’m not as good a person as I wish I were._
> 
> _Sorry to unload all of that onto you._
> 
> _Lily_

It was Wednesday, and the Evans household had fallen into some semblance of a routine. Petunia had taken an extra week’s leave from work, and had moved back into her own old bedroom just as Lily had. Vernon visited every other day. Lily made herself scarce during those visits. 

When Doris was awake, Lily read to her, listened to music with her, cooked with her. Mostly, as far as Lily could tell, her mother just seemed terribly exhausted. Of course, she knew that on the inside Doris’s body was rebelling against her. Multiplying and overproducing with a fury. Lily hated those very cells. She silently fumed at the gentle, delicate way Doris was treating her, as if _she_ were the one who were ill.

She had always been less subtle in her anger than she’d thought.

“Out with it,” Doris said over lunch. The two of them were sitting in the garden, sandwiches laid on a worn picnic blanket between them. Petunia had gone with her boyfriend to lunch. 

“Out with what?” Lily said, looking up from _Pride and Prejudice_. 

Doris smiled, the skin around her green eyes crinkling. “You’re cross with me, Lily Jane, and I know it. So?”

Lily had not shed a single tear since returning home, as if she’d left them all behind in Scotland. But watching her mother — her patient, loving, ridiculously unselfish mother — now, the dam burst open. She set the book aside and flung her arms around Doris, sobbing loudly into her shoulder. 

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? For as long as Lily could remember her mother had put her daughters before herself. And here Lily was, faced with the reality that Doris’s life was going to end much sooner than expected, thinking _how could she do this to_ me _? How could she not tell_ me _?_

Maybe Doris hadn’t visited an oncologist because _she_ hadn’t wanted to know either. Pretending when you had a three-to-five month prognosis was probably a survival tactic. However badly Lily wanted to stay hurt and angry forever, the better part of her knew that making peace with the circumstances was the only way she could give her mother the best close to her life. 

But being reasonable, and sensitive, and kind, had never been harder.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” she said through her hiccuping sobs. 

Doris stroked her back gently. “I’m going to miss you too, darling.” There was an audible tremor in her voice that only made Lily cry harder. 

“I don’t want you to go,” Lily said. “I _don’t want you to go_.”

> _E,_
> 
> _I’m sorry. Feel free to unload any time. I expect you already know this, but I think most feelings — anger, confusion, fear, sadness, etc. — are fair, given the circumstances. The question is, are you taking it out on anyone you shouldn’t be? Are you bottling it up and spoiling the time you ought to be spending with your mum and sister?_
> 
> _Slughorn nearly cried when you weren’t in class this week, by the way. Thought it merited a mention._
> 
> _It’s come to my attention that the girls don’t actually know anything, because you haven’t written them. (Don’t worry, Evans, I haven’t blown your cover.) Far be it from me to tell you what to do, but I reckon this is one of those times you ought to actually, you know, tell your friends what’s up so they can help._
> 
> _Here are some Chocolate Frogs. I’m sure you’ve got great hot chocolate at present, but maybe you’d like something to snack on. Or perhaps you’ll melt down old Froggy?_
> 
> _J_

> _James,_
> 
> _I’m good at hiding most of my emotions, but anger is a sore point. It always set off my accidental magic, when I was younger. I no longer make lights flicker, but I can explode — figuratively speaking — when pushed to it. Even feeling it makes me worried I’ll blow up._
> 
> _Poor Sluggy. I miss him too._
> 
> _I don’t know if I can write them yet. It’s hard to say in letters what I want to say aloud._
> 
> _I don’t melt Chocolate Frogs. That seems wrong._
> 
> _Lily_

On Friday, Doris Evans had her first bad day. She did not feel up to leaving bed, she insisted. Petunia brought her breakfast. Lily brought her lunch. They all took tea together in the master bedroom. 

It was the first day of Easter hols. She’d written to Dex on Tuesday, but she hadn’t told him the whole saga of what had happened as she’d told James — it felt tiring to repeat. She’d written to Amanda Plimpey, Madam Shafiq’s secretary, to put her name forward for the Wizengamot internship. She hadn’t written to St. Mungo’s. She hadn’t written her mates.

Had they gone home for Easter? They’d all gone for Christmas, so maybe not. Lily did not want to think about returning to Hogwarts to find that all her friends were cross with her. What if everything had changed forever? Her gaze fell upon her sleeping mother. What if she really _didn’t_ go back?

What if this was her place, by her mother’s side? Maybe Petunia had been right all along. It wasn’t her time to leave this world for the magical world, not yet, and this was the universe’s way of telling her. 

The phone rang, downstairs. Petunia, who was turning the pages of a glossy magazine, looked up at Lily. 

“Your turn,” she said.

“Since when have we been taking _turns?_ ” said Lily incredulously.

“Since I did my nails—” she waved her fingers “—and didn’t want to spoil them.”

“You’re supposed to do mine next.”

“So you ought to answer the phone before I do them.”

Lily sighed. “Tuney,” she said, her voice turning wheedling.

Petunia tossed the magazine down. “For God’s sake, Lily.” But she strode out of the room and down the creaking staircase.

> _E,_
> 
> _You, unexpectedly explosive in your anger? Wow, I never would’ve thought. (That’s sarcasm, in case it doesn’t translate as well on the page.) Trust me, your mates want to hear from you. And your mother wants you to be honest._
> 
> _Have you been reading the Prophet, by the way? Depressing as usual, so maybe skip the headlines. Sirius and Dad want to have a crossword competition (do not ask me how that’s supposed to work) and I’ve been instructed to ask if you want to participate._
> 
> _J_

Doris had come to pick Lily up from school. A suspension! _Her_ daughter! Lily was boisterous, but not...cruel. The girl in question sat, ten years old and grubby-kneed and quiet, outside the headmistress’s office. She looked up meekly at her mother’s footsteps, then continued dragging a toe across the tiled floor. She stayed silent until they were in the car.

“Amybeth’s awful,” Lily said, unprompted. “She’s rude to Miss Gardiner and she calls Betsy Stevens fat. She’s a _bully_.”

Doris sighed, though some of the tension left her shoulders. This was a much better explanation than what she’d been able to piece together from the teachers.

“That’s no call to use your fists, love. Just as I told you the last three times.”

Lily crossed her arms over her chest, childish petulance in her every angle. “She doesn’t _listen_ when you tell her to stop, so what was I supposed to do?”

“Well, if you tell me what she did today, I can tell the headmistress so someone speaks to Amybeth too.”

She deliberated this for a minute. Biting her lip, she said, “She told everyone we’re poor and that being a mechanic’s low-class. Dad isn’t low-class, is he? So I hit her.”

Doris pressed her lips together, trying to sort out her own simmering anger on her daughter’s behalf. “Darling, you can’t let words hurt you. You have so much that Amybeth doesn’t — you’re a clever little thing, you know not to be rude to the teacher. You’ve got a dad who’s secretly teaching you to drive, and don’t think I haven’t noticed.” Lily carefully looked out of the window. Doris reached over to tug at one of her plaits. “You’ve got pretty red hair. You’ve got your _magic_.”

Lily giggled a little, the angry flush fading slightly from her pale cheeks. 

The next time Amybeth was a brat at school, after Lily’s suspension had been served, her juice at lunchtime mysteriously tipped over, spilling all over her starched-white uniform skirt. Lily herself was a safe distance away, innocently biting into her apple. There were no more phone calls from school to Doris Evans about her troublemaking daughter after that day.

> _James,_
> 
> _Instructed? What did your dad say, “Ask the hellion who was shouting at you in the Hospital Wing that day if she does the crossword?”_
> 
> _Lily_

“Tuney got a doll for Christmas,” Lily said, thirteen years old and quieter than usual that Easter. The house itself felt empty, shadowed. She kept waiting for her dad to come round a corner and pick her up and spin her around. Of course, it never happened, and Lily was old enough to know that expecting otherwise was silly.

Doris was at the hob, frying that morning’s eggs and sausages. “Yes, I know.” Her tone was cautious, uncertain where this was going.

“She’s sixteen, but she got a doll, and she got makeup. And I got books.” Lily was perched on the kitchen table, swinging her legs.

Doris glanced over her shoulder, frowning. “Did you not like the books?”

She shook her head quickly. She loved the books. They were her mum’s favourites, she knew, the complete Jane Austen collection. They were the most beautiful things she’d ever seen, each hardcover with a brilliant red spine and a different-coloured cover: blue for _Pride and Prejudice_ , pink for _Emma_ , peach for _Sense and Sensibility_. She’d begun reading the first of these at once, owling her mother the rest very magnanimously. 

“Why didn’t I get a doll?”

“Would you have liked a doll, or makeup?” Doris countered.

Lily considered this, head tilted. “Maybe. I should’ve liked two presents.”

“You have a present that Petunia doesn’t have.”

She knew that. Her magic. Her wand, upstairs stowed away in her trunk, which was full of her Easter homework about Potions and Charms and Transfiguration. Her gift was a whole world. But didn’t Petunia know she had her own magic? That she read people perfectly, and she could deliver a cutting insult like no one else, and she knew just how to curl her pretty blonde hair?

Telling her that was never a good idea, though. The last time had only caused an argument, and Petunia currently wasn’t speaking to Lily. She wasn’t sure what she’d done to deserve it, but she was too tired — too weighed down by recent loss — to want to press.

“Don’t take what you have for granted, Lily,” Doris said, her voice quiet but taut with emotion.

Lily stilled. She had only seen her mother cry at the funeral, a distinctly horrible experience that had left her too stunned to cry herself. And then she’d cried afterwards, selfishly frustrated and alone in her bedroom, because what kind of awful daughter didn’t cry at her father’s funeral? What kind of horrid daughter wished her mother had stayed strong for _her?_

She was too selfish by half. Doris was right. She took things for granted.

Lily sniffed, though she tried to hide it. Then she hopped off the kitchen table. “Which one should I read next?”

“ _Emma_ ,” her mother replied at once; whatever controlled feeling Lily had heard in her voice was replaced now by warm humour. 

She shuffled to the sitting room, where the overflowing bookcase sat by the phone. The new Austen had place of pride on the shelves. She slid out _Emma_ and flopped backwards onto the sofa. The now-familiar cadence of Austen’s prose welcomed her like a hug from an old friend, and she read, _Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her…_

> _E,_
> 
> _Dad said, “Ask which of your friends do the crossword,” and Sirius said, “I bet Evans isn’t as fast as me.” I read that as invitation. Mum said, “Oh, the girl from the Hospital Wing? I’m glad she shouted at you, I hate raising my voice.” (That’s the third time she’s said that.)_
> 
> _Don’t think I don’t notice you avoided committing to writing your friends and talking to your mum._
> 
> _J_

“For you!” Petunia shouted up the stairs.

“What?” Lily shouted back.

“Don’t shout, you’ll wake Mum up! Come _here_ , phone’s for you!”

Lily scrambled out of the rocking chair and took one last look at her mother, as if afraid she’d disappear with both girls out of the room. Then she was bounding down the steps — “Lily, don’t _scamper_ , it’s so unbecoming—” “—you _wanted_ me to hurry!” — and taking the receiver from Petunia. Her sister, harrumphing a little, disappeared back into the hall.

“Hello?” Lily said, cautious and out of breath. Did James have a telephone? Did _Dex_ have a telephone?

“Ohmygod,” came the voice on the other end. “Oh my _God_ , I was so worried when Petunia took so long to answer the phone, I thought—”

“I’m so sorry, Doe,” said Lily at once, the words falling out of her mouth at her friend’s breathless, familiar worry. “I’m _so_ , _so_ —”

“Don’t bother,” Dorcas said. “I can’t believe I said — I shouldn’t have, I — about your _sister_ , and I understand—”

“—no, I wasn’t upset with _you_ and I took it out on you—”

“—if you don’t think you can talk to us—”

“—I _know_ I can—”

“You know I really love you,” said Doe, her voice small and wavering.

Lily was laughing, though it sounded more like relieved gasping. Her cheeks were damp. 

“I know. I love you, sweetheart.”

“Is she— How—” Doe cleared her throat. Lily could picture her face, scrunched up in concern, as she searched for the right words.

“It’s—” Her instinct was to lie, to say everything was all right, but oh, it _wasn’t._ “It’s awful,” Lily whispered. 

“Oh, darling, I know. Can I… Do you think we girls can come by, over the weekend? I’d like to see your mum, and maybe we can help in the house if you need it, and keep you company—”

“I’d like that. A lot.”

> _James,_
> 
> _I timed my Saturday crossword. Fifteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds, although I was slowed a bit by 23 Down, which rearranged the whole thing so I had to start over. Ask Sirius what he got, and don’t tell him unless I beat him._
> 
> _Doe phoned, so you were obviously right. Don’t gloat._
> 
> _How are you spending your break thus far, other than refereeing crossword competitions?_
> 
> _Lily_

She told herself she wouldn’t cry when her friends came. But when they appeared in the back garden, ferried, one by one, by Germaine’s sister Abigail, Lily felt her eyes grow moist. They hugged her at once — Abigail squeezed her shoulder and Disapparated — and ushered her into her own kitchen.

“Mum’s on a pie kick,” Doe said, setting down a big carry bag on the kitchen table. “They’ve all got preserving charms on them in case your fridge is getting full—”

“Lucky,” Mary said, making a face. “My very Muggle casserole needs to be in the fridge, I’ll move things around—” And she and Germaine set to rearranging the contents of the refrigerator so that the massive glass contained Mary’d brought would fit.

“I didn’t — you didn’t have to,” said Lily.

“We wanted to, though,” Germaine said, with a small smile. “If you want us to do some shopping, or tidy up — Paracelsus on a pogo stick, you’re keeping the house _bizarrely_ clean.”

With a watery smile of her own, Lily surveyed the spotless kitchen. “Petunia’s got nothing to do but clean, and she can’t stand messes. And don’t worry, she’s gone to the shops just now, so we’ll be all right for a few more days.” 

_Thank you_ , she wanted to say again, but she knew if she said it she’d start properly bawling, and none of them wanted that. Instead she picked up the tray of tea she’d made in advance of their arrival and gestured for them to follow.

“Can we say hi, or is Doris asleep?” said Mary.

“We can look in on her.”

The girls trooped up the stairs, and Lily cracked open her mother’s bedroom door. Doris did indeed seem to be asleep; she shut the door once more.

“She’ll be up for lunch, I expect, so you can say hello then,” Lily said, and led her friends to her bedroom. 

She’d tried to tidy it that morning, but the process had been wholly unsatisfying — there wasn’t much _to_ tidy, since most of her things remained at Hogwarts, and her bedroom was the size of a generous closet, to boot.

A few books were stacked on the nightstand, and her hot chocolate supplies were laid out on the dresser, along with the letters she’d received over the past few days. She pushed them aside to make room for the tea tray. She dragged a chair from the hallway into the room so someone could sit on it, but her friends chose the bed or the rug. Lily herself took the chair.

“So, you'll have to tell me what I’ve missed,” she said, cradling her teacup and crossing her legs.

"Not real-world news, I hope?" Doe said, sighing. "It's quite bad."

Lily grimaced. "Is it, really?" She had taken James's advice and avoided poring over the _Prophet_ 's headlines, turning instead to the crossword right away each morning. 

"Pretty bad," Germaine said. "Some Ministry fellow's disappeared—"

"Another?" Disappearances had become increasingly common, in the past few years.

"—oh, yes, another. And there was a creepy pureblood march thing in Diagon Alley."

"My parents were there," added Doe. "Well, not _there_ , they were at the counter-protest."

"Were you?" Lily wanted to know.

Doe grimaced. "They wouldn't let me go. It, er, they were afraid it would get violent." At Lily's expression, she hastened to say, "It didn't, thankfully. But magical law enforcement took its sweet bloody time arriving to shut the whole thing down."

"That's awful."

"Led by that horrid Abraxas Malfoy too," Mary chimed in with a shudder. "Please, let's change the subject."

“Sure, let's. James told me some of what happened at the party, but I need it all from you.” Lily was engaged in sipping her tea, so she missed the look Mary and Dorcas exchanged.

When she looked up again, Germaine said, “Yeah, Mary threw a punch, but she won’t say why.”

Lily laughed. “So you _did_ sock Amelia Bones!”

Mary gave a modest shrug. “I may have. Bones isn’t kicking up a fuss about it, so it’s not like I got detention. No one else knows. As for _why_ , she was being a bitch, duh — slagging me off like snogging her boyfriend two years ago is still a punishable offence.” She rolled her eyes.

“But she always does that,” Germaine said, slurping her own tea. “I don’t see why you had to punch her this time.”

“A few rounds of drinking games, and I’m a changed girl.” Mary slanted a sly look at Dorcas. “Speaking of which…”

Doe coughed, smoothing a hand over Lily’s duvet. “It’s not that big a deal, honestly, Mare—”

“What isn’t?” Lily glanced between her friends, smiling. 

It was easing her heart more than she’d expected, sitting there in her childhood bedroom and trading Hogwarts gossip. This world — _her_ world, her magical world — had not left her behind, no matter how unmoored she felt. 

“Doe snogged Remus and it was a lot,” Germaine said.

Lily’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t! You _did?_ ” Doe was smiling into her teacup. “I didn’t know you liked him like that.”

Doe shrugged. “It’s _not_ that big a deal. It was part of a game—”

“But you wouldn’t have agreed if you didn’t want to,” Mary cut in.

“—all right, I wouldn’t’ve, but I thought I’d get the first one out of the way with someone nice—” Mary and Lily both gasped at this “—and Remus _is_ nice—”

“She fancies Michael Meadowes,” Germaine added.

“Well, that’s no surprise,” Lily said, laughing at Doe’s expression. “No one enjoys studying Ancient Runes _that_ much—” She broke off into a shriek as Doe threw a pillow at her, narrowly missing.

Doe stood to retrieve the pillow, and as she sat down again she said, “We need to do this more often. _Tell_ each other things. We used to, all the time, even the stupidest things — like, what we thought of the day’s Transfiguration lesson or what we thought of Chris Townes’s new haircut or what—”

“Bad, always,” Mary said. “No man has ever had a good haircut.”

“—stop it, Mare, I’m having a moment,” Doe said, but she was giggling. “I know we’re busy, and stressed, and that things are scarier than ever.” Lily knew she wasn’t just talking about schoolwork. “But we have nothing if we don’t have each other.”

“Agreed,” Lily said quietly. “I know I’m — guiltiest of that. But it’s never because I think I can’t confide in you. It’s never _you_ , it’s—” 

Her own expectations of herself, her own standards for herself. Lily Evans fought her battles, and she never flagged, because she was magical. Some part of her still thought like her ten-year-old self, it seemed.

“We know,” Mary said, smiling. “It’s okay, Lily. We _know_ you.”

A tear slipped free and rolled down her cheek; Lily brushed it away and cleared her throat. “Er, how long can you all stay? I’m sure your families—”

“As long as you’ll have us, actually,” Germaine said with a glance at the others, who nodded. “All day, if you want.”

“We’ll make popcorn and watch the _Doctor Who_ season finale,” said Doe. “Six-thirty today, as Andrew reminded us when we went to pick up Mary.”

Lily laughed. “It’s a six-part episode, and I’ve missed parts one through five…” She would enjoy it nonetheless, but she felt suddenly as if she wanted a different distraction. A bigger one. “Maybe we — can go out? Just so I can forget about everything, for a bit?”

It seemed like a selfish sentiment, and Lily spoke it with hesitation. But her friends smiled.

“Whatever you like, Lily,” Mary said. “Just us?”

An owl swooped through the open window, majestic and tawny; he hooted at Peppermint, then gazed imperiously at Lily. She leapt out of her seat and went to remove the letter attached to his leg.

“Dex?” Doe inquired.

Lily pinked a little, though she wasn’t sure why she should. “James, actually. He’s acting as a proxy for something about Sirius and crosswords.”

He had also listened to her, and given her advice, but she thought that was best unmentioned at present. She didn’t want to make it seem as though she preferred his advice — and his very new, raw friendship — to her best mates’. It was certainly untrue.

Her back was turned; once again she missed the meaningful eyebrow-raising that passed between Doe and Mary. Germaine was tracing a pattern in Lily’s rug, and also missed it. 

“D’you want to invite them?” Germaine said, looking up. “They’re pretty diverting. Nearly as diverting as Doctor Whoever.”

Lily snorted, pausing her perusal of James’s letter. “Is that weird, d’you think?”

“No,” Doe said, sensing that Mary, if pressed upon to answer, would not be able to keep a straight face. “No, why would it be? Remus is your friend. And so’s James,” she added quickly.

The door creaked open, and Doris said, “I thought I heard your voices, girls. How are you all?”

They chorused hellos; Lily dropped the parchment and kissed her mother’s cheek. “Did we wake you?”

“Not at all. If I could trouble you a minute, Lily—”

“Do you want something from the kitchen? I can get it for you.”

Doris smiled. “You can help me down the stairs, love.”

So Lily did, one hand tightly clasped in her mother’s, one step at a time.

“What’s this I hear about going out, and _boys?"_ Doris’s brows rose in that amused but not quite chastising manner of all mothers fishing for gossip.

“Is it all right if we go? We can stay in too—”

“You need a break, child. Have a nice evening out.” Doris braced a hand against the kitchen doorframe. “ _Boys?"_ she said again.

Lily rolled her eyes. “Mum, honestly, it’s just Remus and his mates.”

“Who are boys.”

“Incidentally, yes.”

“Boys you’ve complained about to me for quite a few years now.”

She shrugged. “There’s still plenty to complain about.” But she was smiling. “Stop it, Mum, they’re just very good at distractions.”

Doris chuckled. “From what I recall, they’re very good at causing trouble.”

“Mu- _um_ , please—”

“All right, all right, I’ll stop. Run along—”

Lily skipped back upstairs.

> _E,_
> 
> _Sirius said twelve minutes and forty-nine seconds. Tough luck. He also read your previous letter, so he knows you’re slower. Sorry, I tried to stop him._
> 
> _There’s not much to do. Probably we’ll visit Remus sometime in the week. His mum’s doing poorly again. Sirius wants to scope out some flats in Diagon Alley. Mum’s going into mourning because her favourite son is moving out. Not me, in case that wasn’t clear._
> 
> _J_

> _James,_
> 
> _Diagon Alley, 8:30 tonight? I believe I’m owed a bloody great night._
> 
> _Lily_

The sun hadn’t set very long ago; the sky was still stained pinkish as Lily slipped into her mother’s bedroom. Doris was reading _Emma_ , her glasses perched on the edge of her nose. She looked up and smiled sleepily at her daughter.

“You look lovely.”

Lily smiled a little. She hadn’t really _tried_ to look like anything; she was in jeans and a blouse, but she had picked out hoop earrings and used mascara for the first time since her last, semi-disastrous Hogsmeade date with Dex. But she worried, suddenly, that she would go for a few hours and her mother would — no, she couldn’t even think it.

Doris seemed to read her mind. “Go on. We’ll manage well enough without you, dear.”

 _Honesty_ , Lily thought. She said, “You lied, about the watch. About it being Petunia’s idea.”

Doris’s smile faded. She did not pretend to be ignorant. “I didn’t think you would ask her about it before I told her — I suppose I forgot, with everything.”

“Why?”

She sighed. “Oh, Lily. You’ll only have each other. Can you blame me for wanting to bring you close together again?”

She couldn’t fault her mother’s logic. She couldn’t fault the fact that when Doris lied, it was only to protect her daughters. _You’ll only have each other_. Lily did not want to envision such a world — not for any lack of love for her sister, though things were complicated between them, but because of what it meant for her mother. 

What had James said to her, all those months ago?

“You can’t go back,” Lily said, looking down at her fidgeting fingers.

“No,” Doris said gently, “but you can’t stand still either.”

* * *

_ii. Stand By Me_

The girls took the Knight Bus into London, and entered Diagon Alley through the Leaky Cauldron. The Marauders were waiting in the street, talking in low voices among themselves; Lily noticed that Remus was looking quite peaky, and felt a sudden rush of affection for him. That they should have come at all — and Peter and Sirius should come too, despite the fact that they had never been particularly close — meant more than she could say. 

At their arrival, the boys stopped speaking, and Remus gave her a brief hug.

“You’re all right, aren’t you?” he said in a low voice. “All right as can be?”

She smiled. “Yes. I’m ready to — think about something else, honestly.”

Behind her, Mary and Germaine were arguing about where, exactly, they ought to go.

“We can’t go to the bloody Leaky Cauldron, no matter how much you want to!” Mary was saying to Germaine. “Some of us aren’t yet of age, remember? And Tom really won’t serve us. I tried to get him to, last summer.”

“But that was nearly a year ago! You’re only months away from seventeen now—“

“Ger _maine_.” Mary’s gaze flicked to meet Lily’s. 

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” Germaine said, putting her hands up in surrender. “But where else would we go?”

“Holy shit,” said Sirius, holding up a finger to silence them. “Holy shit, it’s time.”

“No,” the other Marauders said immediately. 

“What is it?” Doe said. “Or more accurately, where?”

“It’s a bar on Horizont Alley,” said Sirius, growing animated. “The pluses are, they don’t give a shit how old you are, there’s good music, and the alcohol is cheap.”

“What’s not to like, then?” Normally such a question would be rhetorical; Doe was squinting at Sirius with suspicion. 

He shrugged expressively. “Well... the alcohol might be one part dishwater. Can’t be certain.”

“I’d rather drink dishwater than nothing at this point,” said Mary archly. 

“Priorities,” muttered Peter. 

“Horizont Alley. Let’s go, then,” Lily said. 

That put an end to the debate. Sirius led the way; Lily fell to the back of the group, even though her natural tendency was to stride to the front. 

“Oi,” said James, who had lagged beside her, “are you sure you’re in the mood to get roaring drunk right now?”

Lily nodded. “I just need to do something else. I need to be reminded that — life goes on.” She swallowed hard. _You can’t stand still_ , her mother had said. Maybe saying it to herself more would make her believe it.

He nodded slowly. “All right. But if at any point you want to leave—“

“I know, I’ll take the Knight Bus,” she said, attempting a smile. “No unlicensed Apparition for me.”

James looked at her with an expression of profound confusion. “No,” he said, “we’ll take it with you and make sure you get home.”

Lily looked down at the cobbled street. “Oh. Right.”

They walked in silence until they arrived at the bar, finally catching up to the others. It really was as seedy as one could imagine. Tucked in a corner of Horizont Alley, its grimy windows barely revealed its dim-lit interiors, and a smudged sign above it advertised the place as either the Pennythistle or the Rennutst. It was difficult to tell. Sirius pushed open the door, which gave a pleasant tinkle, and the eight of them crowded inside.

Unsurprisingly, the place was nearly empty. They piled into a booth and the suddenly-perky waitstaff rushed to hear their orders. Lily found herself squashed between Doe and James; she rested her head on the other girl’s shoulder, suppressing an instinctive sigh. She could feel the weight of James’s concerned gaze. 

“Drinking in a bar without anything else going on is sad,” Mary said. 

“You could’ve been drinking Butterbeer at the Cauldron,” Germaine said sweetly, earning her a punch on the shoulder. 

“I mean when there’s no music or dancing.”

Lily quite agreed; she did not want this to be a _sad_ night out. She would have enough sad nights in her future. But the Marauders exchanged significant looks.

“We can play a drinking game,” said Remus. “Everyone, turn out your pockets.”

The purpose of this request wasn’t immediately apparent. Between them they had a notebook (Germaine), a pack of Exploding Snap (Peter), a bright-red die (Doe, who seemed oddly flustered by such an ordinary object), and a booklet of matches (surprisingly, not Sirius but James). 

“Right,” said Sirius, eyeing their collection. “We’ll do I never, Exploding Snap, soulmates, and truth or dare.”

“With mercy,” added Peter. “And pounces.”

“Can someone translate?” Lily said. 

Their drinks arrived in startlingly large glasses. Remus handed them out as Sirius dealt them each three matchsticks. Lily looked dubiously at hers, ostensibly a Firewhisky but in practice a strangely muddy-brown liquid. Beside her, James had happily begun sipping his drink. So it couldn’t be _that_ unsafe, could it?

“So, when it’s your turn you roll the die,” Sirius said. “If you get one, we do a round of I nevers. If you get two, you make an Exploding Snap move. If you get three, you play soulmates with a person of the table’s choice. If you get four, you’ve got to do a truth. If you get five, a dare, also table’s choice.”

“And six?” Doe said. 

“Table’s choice,” said Peter. 

“Fuck,” said Germaine. “I’ve already forgotten.”

“Shut up and listen, King. You get as many mercies — chances to pass on truth or dare — as you have matchsticks. Mercies _are_ transferable, if you’re interested in helping each other out.” Sirius made a face, showing quite clearly what he thought of this strategy. “After that, every mercy you invoke, you down half your drink. You can pounce during an I never round if you think of something you’ve never done and it isn’t your turn, but if no one else has done it either, you down all of your drink.”

Mary eyed her own dull, grey-green drink. “Maybe we should’ve gone to the Cauldron after all.” Germaine made a face at her. 

“Okay, Prongs, keep score.” Sirius passed him the notebook. 

“There are points? You can win this game?” Lily said doubtfully. 

“Well, why play if you can’t win?” James said with cheer. 

Lily rolled her eyes. But — this was good. She was already too busy remembering all these rules to dwell on her mother. _You’ll only have each other_. And she could be competitive. She could focus on winning. 

“Evans first, since she’s a non-believer.”

Lily picked up the die. She was honestly terrible at Exploding Snap; the victory in January had been a well-executed strategy, but she couldn’t _repeat_ it… And she was also terrible at dares...and what the hell was soulmates, anyway?

She rolled a three. _Guess I’ll find out right now_. 

“Soulmates!” Sirius pronounced. “Right, Evans has to go back to back with someone, and in a timed three-minute session, we will ask them questions to which the answer can be Lily, or Person B. So, for instance, “which of you two is more of a fucking swot?” And since she knows that’s her—“

“Hey!”

“—she drinks, and the other person doesn’t. But if they fuck up, if they both drink or if neither drinks, then they both have to drink again.”

Lily’s eyes widened. “My head’s killing me in advance of tomorrow morning. What am I going to drink, this whole thing?” She rapped her glass. 

“Shots, obviously,” said James, grinning. “‘Scuse me, could we get a dozen of your filthiest shots?” The bartender seemed disturbingly receptive to this request, bustling behind the grimy bar. 

“God, we’re going to rack up a bill,” Doe said, wide-eyed. 

“I’m independently wealthy,” said Sirius with magnanimity. “Pay what you want, and the rest’s on me.”

“Can the table vote so I can do this bloody soulmates thing?” Lily interrupted, half-laughing. The shots that the waiter placed on their table were all ominously brown. Dishwater, indeed. She took a sip of her Firewhisky, and found that it tasted as it was meant to. _That_ was a relief.

“Are we going easy on her?” Mary asked, rubbing her hands together. 

“Fuck no,” said Peter happily. 

“Peter!” Lily protested. “I trusted you!”

“All’s fair in I never, Exploding Snap, soulmates, and truth or dare.”

“Okay,” said Mary, gnawing on her bottom lip. “I vote Peter.”

“Boring,” pronounced Germaine. “I vote James.”

Lily put her face in her hands. How many questions could they ask her in three minutes? How many shots was that?

“I’m in for James as well,” said Doe after a moment. The other Marauders happily voted the same way. 

“I can’t believe you would do this to me,” James grumbled. “Right, on your feet, Evans.”

They stood at the edge of the table. 

“Turn around!” Germaine said. 

They did; Lily took a halting step backwards at the same time as James did, and their backs bumped together. 

“Sorry,” Lily said quickly. 

“Just stay put,” said James. “This is all right.”

It was strange, being so near to someone but not facing them. They were not as close together as Lily thought they would be. All she felt was the warmth of him. Mary pushed the shots towards them; Lily picked one up. 

“How’re you counting three minutes?” she said. 

“I’ve got a watch,” said Doe. 

Lily snorted. “I don’t trust your bloody watch. Cast a Countdown Charm.” She thought for a moment. “ _Remus_ , cast a Countdown Charm.”

He was grinning. “Three, two, one—“ He flicked his wrist, and the number 180 appeared above them. 

“Who does McGonagall like more?” Sirius said. 

Lily knocked back her drink, and felt James’s arm move too late. _Shit_ , she thought, grimacing at the sickly-sweet aftertaste. Their friends all whooped. 

“Drink again!”

“This was a terrible idea,” she said. 

“You should’ve faced the facts,” James said. She could hear the smile in his voice. “McGonagall likes me better.”

“Oh, shut up—“

“Okay, okay, which of you is more competitive?” Doe asked.

Lily picked up the next glass but did not drink. James certainly thought he was more competitive. Perhaps he was, in more facets of life. Or maybe she was more secretive about it… In any case her hesitation paid off, because James _did_ drink.

“Most likely to get in a fight,” Mary said.

Lily drank; James did not, which made the table laugh.

“She’s been getting in scraps since she was ten, you know,” he said, disapproving.

“That was once,” Lily said and immediately regretted it, because it was, of course, a lie.

“It was four separate times,” said James gleefully, as she’d known he would.

“You’re draining the clock!” Peter cut in. “Who starts more arguments?”

 _That’s him_ , Lily thought, and she did not drink, but neither did James. The table hooted once more.

“Stone cold, Wormtail,” Sirius said approvingly. “Drink, both of you.”

Lily groaned and tossed back another shot. “You’ll have to carry me home and explain what happened to my mum, and then she’ll hate you all—”

By the time their three minutes were up, her vision had grown warm-tinted and slightly blurry at the edges. The shots no longer tasted awful. In fact, they were quite good. She retook her seat, drumming her fingers on the sticky tabletop. Whoever was next, she was going to make them pay.

“Three points to Mary,” Remus was saying, only slightly tripping over the words. “And, er, one to Peter.”

“I deserve two for that!” Peter said, indignant.

James, whose scrawl had become progressively less legible as the game went on, hushed his friends. “I believe _I_ was asked to keep score.”

Lily peeked over his shoulder. “You gave Doe an extra two. It wasn’t even her turn.”

James made a face at her. “I said I’m keeping score, now leave off.” He rolled a two. “Great — I’ve never snogged a ginger.”

“Fuck you,” Mary and Sirius said in unison, drinking. Lily sighed and took a sip as well.

James raised his brows. “Yourself in the mirror doesn’t count, you know.”

She snorted — she swore it was involuntary, but she saw his smile grow at the sound. 

“No, I kissed _another_ ginger, Potter. Johnny, he went to my primary school. He was extremely sweet.”

“You kissed this fellow in primary? Maybe you're not such a prude after all, Evans..."

“Oh, shut up, I kissed him over the summer one year — _not_ that it's any of your business—"

Germaine suddenly bounced in her seat. “Pounce! I have one!”

“Okay — Germaine with the pounce…” James bent over the notebook. “Evans, you can forfeit a point or make an Exploding Snap move.”

Lily sighed. “What does it matter? I’m not going to win anyway.”

James shook his head. “That’s a loser’s mentality.”

“Your winner’s mentality isn’t keeping you away from the bottom either,” said Lily, rolling her eyes. 

She flipped over an Exploding Snap card, and squealed happily at a successful match. It took her a moment to dig out her wand — a tense few heartbeats in which the others all proclaimed the cards were going to explode any minute — but finally she completed her point. 

Germaine, who was just as much of a lightweight as her size would indicate, was kneeling on the booth’s bench and swaying from side to side. 

“I’ve never fucked anyone—“ she began triumphantly. 

“Could stop right there,” said Doe.

“—shut up, the night of Evan Wronecki’s holiday party.” Then she clapped her hands together, cackling. 

For a moment no one moved. James and Lily took sips at the same time, then looked at each other.

“You!” James said, nearly choking on his sip.

The alcohol had loosened her tongue sufficiently for her to say, “What, do I look like such a virgin?”

James coughed. “I don’t _think_ about the sex you are or aren’t having, thanks.”

“Glad to know we made it out of orgy central unscathed,” Doe said to Germaine. 

“Well, can I have my go, if Germaine’s done pouncing?” Lily said, waving a hand for silence. “I’ve never kissed anyone at this table.” She felt rather proud of herself at that one. 

The first to react were Doe and Remus, who locked eyes and were immediately incredibly awkward; both drank. 

Then Mary sighed. “There was the one time.”

“Yeah, a terrible time,” said Sirius. “No offence.”

Mary tried to shove him from across the table. “Terrible for _whom_ , Black? It was _your_ first.” They too drank. 

“Ponce!” Germaine shouted before they had even swallowed. “I mean, pounce!”

“I’ll forfeit,” said Doe, peering at James’s scorekeeping. “I’ve got plenty of points to spare.”

“Thank you. I’ve never considered _and_ found appealing the thought of snogging anyone at this table.” She sat back, wearing a look of great satisfaction. 

“Really?” Peter said. 

“Yes, because _they’re_ my friends and _you’re_ men,” said Germaine. 

The boys all took this in stride. Everyone other than Germaine and Lily drank without hesitation. 

“What if you’re unsure?” Lily said, making a face at her drink. “I don’t know if mine counts.”

“It’s fairly black and white, Lil,” said Mary. 

“Yeah, you either fantasise about me or you don’t,” Remus said, making everyone roar with laughter. 

Doe nudged her side. “Who are you unsure about?” She was making an effort to whisper, but of course there was no other noise to mask her voice. 

“You’re not nearly as quiet as you think you are,” said Lily, elbowing her back. 

“Answer!”

“No one _else_ has had to answer!” She felt her face grow hot. 

“I think if you’re unsure, you should probably drink,” said Mary. 

Lily took a reluctant sip. She hadn’t thought through her announcement at all. Not that she was thinking of anyone in particular — or if she _had_ been, that train of thought had been totally derailed. Drunk Lily moved leagues ahead of Sensible Lily.

While Sirius settled their tab and Doe, Peter, and Germaine played a rapid-fire bonus round to determine the game’s winner, James and Lily — as the two lowest scorers — had been sent to hail the Knight Bus for the group. They had done nothing of the sort so far. Instead they leaned against the building next to the Pennythistle and stared out at the cool April night. 

At least, Lily _reckoned_ it was cool. She’d had so much to drink, she didn’t feel any sort of nip in the air. 

“We should get the bus,” she mumbled. 

“They’ll be a while longer,” said James. 

“Oh, all right.” Lily searched her pockets and then her purse, finally pulling out one loose cigarette. She lit it with her wand and inhaled. “Time to go back home.”

“Yes,” James said, a note of humour audible in his voice. 

“Don’t laugh at me. You’re just as drunk as _I_ am,” she said loftily.

“ _Just as drunk as I am_ ,” he mimicked, his voice high and prissy.

“That is not what I sound like!”

She bumped his side with her shoulder. They stayed pressed together like that; she didn’t think she could force herself, just then, to stand up straight. Plucking the cigarette from her mouth, Lily offered it to James, who took it silently.

“I’m glad you wrote me,” James said at last. “Glad I could—”

“Glad you could?” she prodded.

“Words aren’t — right.”

“You’re not making sense.” She was giggling. She took the cigarette back from him. 

He gestured wordlessly. There was another long pause. 

“Glad I could help, I s’pose.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Just, you know you can always write me, yeah?”

At some point while he was speaking they had turned to face each other. Lily would not remember this the next morning, and even if she had, she would have discarded it as the logic of Drunk Lily. But in that moment, she took one look at him and a voice inside her head said: _this boy is in love with you_. With certainty. It was written all over him — the little pinch of concern between his brows, the serious press of his mouth, the absolute earnestness in his gaze. What could it be but love? 

Lily put her hand on his shoulder to steady herself. 

“You’re swaying,” he said with a half-smile, his hand light against her hip. 

“ _You’re_ swaying,” she said. 

“I have the balance of a mountain goat.”

She snorted a laugh. His smile widened. He had a nice smile — it wasn’t his big, boyish grin, which was also a nice smile, but it was lovely nonetheless. 

“How did you get it?” she said, thinking at first of the smile but then of the scar on his upper lip.

James ducked his head, laughing. 

“What?”

“Just, you are _so_ foxed, Evans.”

“Stop it, and answer the question. How did you get it?” She pointed at her own upper lip.

He tilted his head back, dropping his hand from her hip; she stumbled, and he reached to steady her once more. Thankfully, he made no cracks about how drunk she was.

“You can’t laugh,” he warned.

“No promises,” Lily said, already giggling.

He took a deep breath. “When I was four, I fought with Mum’s owl because she was writing letters instead of playing with me.”

She had to clap a hand over her mouth to hold in her laughter. “And you only had that little mark?”

“Well, the owl knew better than to take my bloody eye out. He was trained better than I was at that point.”

She gripped his shoulder tighter as she laughed. “You’re such a spoiled, attention-seeking brat,” she said, warm and teasing.

James shrugged, the picture of innocence. “Who, me?”

“Yes, you,” she told him, with a snort.

He laughed. “There you go again, snorting.”

“You keep making me laugh,” Lily protested.

“Shall I stop, then?”

 _Yes_ , she attempted to say, but the word caught in her throat. His gaze softened. He lifted his free hand — hesitantly — and cupped her cheek, pulling her face up to his. 

Even Drunk Lily could not process this with serenity. They were going to kiss. He was going to kiss her. She was going to kiss him. This was how it would happen and it sent her brain into a frenzy. James was going to kiss her and — and the last two things she’d done were drink bucketloads of God knew what disgusting chemical, and smoke — Lily took the offending cigarette from her mouth quickly. 

In the same moment his trajectory changed, though she could not tell if her movement had spurred it. James pressed his mouth to her cheek, and it was over in a quick, hot second. As he withdrew he stepped away from her, and summoned the Knight Bus without another word to her. And their friends all poured out of the bar, chattering and laughing. 

Lily had to resist the urge to touch the place where he’d kissed her. What had just happened? What had both of them just... _allowed_ to happen? James drifted away but she stayed rooted to the spot. 

“I have a boyfriend,” she said suddenly. 

She did not know if James could hear — she did not even know if she _wanted_ James to hear. 

“Bit of a late realisation,” Sirius said, looking her up and down. “It’s been on for a while, right under your nose.”

She didn’t react to this joke. She knew that should’ve been her _first_ thought when James had looked at her like that and she had stood on her toes, her breath catching. Why hadn’t it occurred to her sooner, instead of — oh, rot about how her breath would smell? 

Lily was barely cognisant of the Knight Bus exploding into the street; Doe took her by the arm and pulled her into it. Her friends haggled with the conductor, trying to get the bus to stop in Cokeworth first. She sat there in silence, mumbling a thank you as Doe walked her into the house and up the staircase. She was deposited in bed; Germaine tucked the covers under her chin, Mary left a tall glass of water on her nightstand, Doe whispered for her to owl the moment she woke. Lily closed her eyes, and sleep took her immediately.

* * *

_Interlude: Meanwhile, at Pemberley_

"You didn't go to Knockturn Alley, did you?" Euphemia turned her eagle-eyed stare upon James and Sirius as they stepped out of the green flames in the sitting room fireplace.

"No, Mum. We heard you the first twelve times you told us not to," James replied, rolling his eyes.

"Don't cheek me, James." She gave Sirius a look that said _well?_ to which he nodded. "Good. You've had enough tangles with horrid little blood purist snots—" both boys suppressed laughter at this "—in recent weeks. Do not laugh, I mean it. Did you find a flat?"

Sirius snagged a biscuit from the coffee table and slumped into an armchair. "Not yet. Diagon Alley's bloo— _very_ expensive, did you know that?"

"Oh, rather," Euphemia said drily. "James, don't be antisocial."

This because James had turned right away to the staircase; his owl, Fabius Watkins, had no doubt returned with a new letter from Lily. He sighed. "I've spent the whole day with him, and it's not like he's a _guest._ "

Sirius made an innocent _who, me?_ face above his biscuit. "Yeah, come on, Prongs, don't be antisocial. When you're not writing Evans, you're reading her book." There was something hard and glittering in his gaze. Given a moment to consider what it meant, James might have read it accurately. But it was gone in a flash.

"Is that so?" Euphemia said with great interest.

James threw Sirius a look of profound betrayal. "What about it?"

"Nothing." Again, that flash of _something_ _._ "I'm only glad you've progressed beyond complaining about her to actually communicating with her. What's the book?"

"It's my personal business," James said, though this had never deterred his mother before.

"Austen," Sirius said. " _Persuasion._ "

Euphemia's brows shot up.

"Some best mate you are," James said.

" _You_ didn't promise me a lifetime of Sunday roast after I've moved out," said Sirius cheerfully, reaching for a second biscuit. "Step it up."

"Whatever, maybe I'm reading. It's not a big deal."

"Let's hope it isn't, or we'll have to hear about it forever."

Sirius and Euphemia exchanged meaningful looks. James glared at them, thinking it was a bad job how well his mother got along with his best friend.

* * *

_iii. Carry That Weight_

On Easter Monday, the Evans girls woke up to find Doris still asleep. She did not wake when Lily murmured a good morning. She did not wake when Petunia brought in tea and eggs. She did not wake when the girls shook her, gently at first, more frantically after. 

An ambulance was called, but both girls — pale, shellshocked, too afraid to cry — knew there was no point. Their mother was gone. Lily looked at Petunia, who was trembling slightly as the body was removed. _We only have each other_ , she thought.

At once there were arrangements to deal with. This, it turned out, was a good thing. Just as the girls had dedicated themselves to easing their mother’s burdens those past two weeks, they threw themselves into planning the funeral, grateful to be able to bustle around. There were distant relatives to phone — both Doris and their late father had been only children, and both sets of grandparents had passed when the girls were young, so there wasn’t much in the way of close family. The secondary school, where Doris taught, was notified. The headmaster sent a big bouquet in sympathy. 

Lily owled her friends in between all that had to be done. Homegrown pink carnations arrived from the Macdonalds, white lilies from the Walkers and Kings. A shock of white roses from Dex. Stems of lilac gladioli from James. The Evans home was more full of flowers than it had ever been before. 

The funeral, a quiet affair, took place that Wednesday. Doris was buried alongside her husband. Lily cried this time, all through the service. She hadn’t confessed her anger, her frustration, her confusion to her mother. Now she was left with all of the former and not the latter. Petunia, one arm wrapped tightly around her, stayed dry-eyed and resolute.

“We’ll need to sell the house,” Petunia said briskly on Thursday morning.

Lily set down the biscuit she’d been eating. “What?” she said, her voice shaky, as if Petunia had attempted to boot her out the front door right then and there.

“We’ll need to sell the house, I said. There’s no point keeping it, not when no one’s living in it most of the year.”

It certainly made sense, but Lily was not in a mood for sense just then. She wrestled with confusion and instinctive refusal.

“But...where will I go for the holidays?” Had Petunia forgotten that she had one year left, still, at school?

Very possibly she had. The elder Evans pursed her lips. 

“Unless,” Lily began, “you’re all right with me coming to live with you.” 

Petunia’s London flat was small, too small for both of them and all their things. But if they sold the Cokeworth house, surely it would give them enough money to upgrade in London? There was a long, pregnant pause. For a horrible moment Lily thought Petunia would refuse, and say she ought to find her own place to live…

“Yes, I think that would be best,” she said instead. “It’s only summers and Christmases, after all.”

“Just the summer,” Lily corrected. “I’m spending Christmas at Hogwarts—” a brief twitch of the eyelid, at the school’s name “—since it’s my last one. But I could come back for Easter, since it’ll be the anniversary…” She trailed off.

Petunia did not seem much enthused. Of course, Lily reasoned, why would she be? She had her own life, a life that existed beyond her little sister. Lily could not fault her for that. But… _You’ll only have each other_. 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Petunia said. “But if we’re in agreement, we ought to do as much packing as possible, before you return to school. Vernon can help.”

Timidly, Lily said, “Maybe you ought to tell Vernon, about me. If I’m moving in with you. He’ll be seeing more of me.”

Petunia gave her an unreadable look, then sighed. “Let’s have this conversation later. I’ll need to phone some movers.” She stood, making her way to the sitting room.

Lily nodded mutely. She could have offered to do it by magic, but she knew quite well what her sister’s response would be to that. She looked around at the kitchen, at the house she’d always lived in, her first-ever home. Already it felt as if they’d packed it up to echoing emptiness.

> _James,_
> 
> _I’m glad to hear Sirius has found a flat, although those neighbours sound incredibly shady. That being said, I suppose he’d consider it an adventure, wouldn’t he? Carkitt Market is lovely. I wish I could live there. Although, since we’re moving, I have more cause to be there in the summer. Maybe I ought to be there all day, just sitting by the fountain._
> 
> _You still haven’t told me how your hot chocolate attempt went. I think that’s because it went poorly._
> 
> _Lily_

> _E,_
> 
> _He does consider it an adventure, and I’m inclined to agree. If you do haunt Carkitt Market all summer, you can charm the neighbours. Problem solved!_
> 
> _It went very well, thank you. I didn’t need your directions at all._
> 
> _J_
> 
> _P.S. it went very badly. I concede._

“I thought, for a moment, that I ought not to go back,” said Lily into the receiver, putting her feet up.

“Go back?” Mary repeated on the other end. “Go back where?”

“To Hogwarts, I mean,” said Lily. It sounded absurd even to say it out loud now. “But that’s ridiculous, and you lot reminded me how ridiculous that is. So don’t worry.”

Mary huffed. “Jesus sodding Christ, I’m _glad!_ You belong at Hogwarts, Lily Evans, and more to the point, if you’d gone I’d have to endure Amelia bloody Bones as Head Girl and I just couldn’t have that, I couldn’t!” Both girls laughed.

“Dex phoned yesterday, can you believe it,” Lily said, when her mirth had faded, twirling the phone cord around one finger. “As in, he found a telephone box, learned how Muggle money works, and phoned me. I’d forgotten I even gave him my phone number.”

“I hope it was as smooth a process for him as you describe it to be.”

Lily snorted. “He spoke very, very loudly. Petunia thought there was a madman on the line.” She had remedied the situation by inviting him over, giving him a precise address. She’d expected him to arrive by Knight Bus, but he’d taken the chance and Apparated into her back garden. He’d brought freshly-baked scones.

All things considered, that had gone well. No one had seen, aside from a startled robin. Petunia was at that moment driving the last of their things deemed worthy of keeping down to London. Lily was left with the last of the throw pile, which needed to be carted to various places for donation or disposal. But she deserved a day off with her boyfriend, didn’t she?

She had shown him around the empty house, apologising for its state — he told her she had nothing to apologise for — and then had led him to her mostly-empty bedroom. The bed would be the last thing to go. Dex had sat on the bed and pointed out that she could engage a magical packer, and transfer the bulkier items in their home more easily. Lily told him she would sleep on Petunia’s sofa for the last night of the holiday, and they would figure out other arrangements in July. There was no use carting around a bed before her sister had space for it, after all, and before Lily had use for it. He had said this seemed very sensible indeed.

She asked him about his family shop, and how his cousin was faring. A touch unhappily, he said that things were all right — that he would try again, with culinary school, after the dust settled. She said that seemed like the right course of action. 

With conversation temporarily exhausted, Lily kissed him. A good few minutes of kissing ensued, and she happily gave in to the warmth of his embrace. There was little need to think of anything else. No, nothing at all… And then she’d jerked back, blurting out, “ _Wait_.”

Startled but by no means upset, Dex released her and said, “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Lily.”

She smiled tightly at him. But that hadn’t been why she’d stopped, although the New Year’s party had lingered in her memory at his touch. No, something else was foggily clawing its way to the front of her mind, something that needed a great deal of consideration. 

She couldn’t tell him, not until she’d sorted it out. So Lily shook her head no, and suggested they take a walk instead. There was a nip in the air and her mind was still whirling, but pointing out the landmarks of her childhood proved sufficient distraction for them both. Dex seemed to forget about her panic. She kissed him goodbye, hoping it would jog her memory further, but the pertinent part of it all faded into shadowy nothingness every time she approached it.

The next day, Lily phoned Mary. This situation was far beyond her experience.

“Petunia thought there was a madman on the line,” Lily was saying, “but then she left for London, so she didn’t have to see him.”

“Have to?” Mary repeated. “Are you hiding your boyfriend from your sister?”

Lily was well aware that Mary had cooled on Dex since the revelation of his post-sex thoughtlessness. There was a flinty warning in her friend’s voice even now.

“Not hiding,” she said. “It’d just put a damper on the whole day, her being difficult and weird while he — asks what the telly does, or whatever.”

“All right, I believe you,” Mary said, in the exact tone of voice that made Lily think she didn’t.

“Do you think I should break up with him?” Lily said, all in a rush.

“What? Do you _want_ to? I thought you’d sorted everything, with the whole _sex_ —” she whispered this word, which suggested her little brother was nearby “—incident and all. I thought he was being nice.”

“He is,” said Lily sadly. That was the problem. “Very nice. But he didn’t sign up to be — the support boy for someone who’s just lost her mother.”

Mary scoffed. “I didn’t _sign up_ to be your support friend three years ago, bampot, but that doesn’t mean I won’t support you when called upon. I don’t understand — you didn’t want to dump him when he _was_ a git, but now you want to dump him because he isn’t?”

Lily gnawed on a fingernail. Petunia had painted it robin’s egg blue, and she wondered idly if it clashed with her hair. 

“No,” she said slowly.

“Then what is it? There’s something else, isn’t there?”

“I think,” Lily whispered haltingly. She looked up to see if Petunia was listening, but no, her sister appeared to be bustling through the kitchen with no care for her conversation. She lowered her voice anyway. “I think something may have happened, Saturday before last.”

“What?” Mary said, sounding utterly perplexed. “Look, you’ll have to spell it out for me. I’m nothing but...but...confused.” The last word was an awestruck whisper. “What d’you mean, _something may have happened?_ ”

“Oh, Mare,” Lily moaned, feeling quite ill. “I don’t know, because I don’t remember all of it — Sirius bloody Black, I’m never going to the pubs he recommends, ever ever ever again! I’m never playing a drinking game—”

“ _All of it?_ Lily. Speak, before I grievously injure myself trying to Apparate to you right now.”

“You haven’t successfully Apparated even once,” said Lily, simply to buy herself time.

“My point exactly. Well?”

“I don’t know,” she said again. “I don’t know, because we’ve been writing each other for days, and it’s been completely normal.” 

That was true; if there had been any indication in James’s letters, Lily would have picked up on it. She would at least have tried to probe through the incomplete memories from that night. But she hadn’t, she _hadn’t_ , and nothing had even occurred to her until she had leaned towards her boyfriend and felt his lips on hers and thought, _this happened weekend before last._

Except Dex hadn’t been with her that Saturday. Through that entire, Firewhisky-soaked evening, only one boy had been alone with her. It was Occam’s bloody Razor.

“Lily,” Mary said threateningly. 

With a final glance at the sitting room door, Lily mumbled, “I think I kissed James.”

Mary hissed. “Fucking hell. Oh, shut up, Andrew, you know I swear. Are you certain?”

“No, I’m _not_ certain, that’s the point!” said Lily, her voice rising to a distressed wail.

“Lily, what’s the matter with you?” Petunia called from the kitchen.

“Nothing!” she shouted back.

“But he hasn’t said anything, in his letters,” said Mary, quite reasonably. “So how do you know something happened?”

“Something definitely happened,” said Lily. “I remember—” 

She faltered. She remembered laughing, and James saying, “I have the balance of a mountain goat,” and her hand on his shoulder, and _his_ hand cupping her cheek…and leaning in, leaning in…lips parting, eyes fluttering closed… Afterwards, saying, “I have a boyfriend,” but not _to_ him… She couldn’t be entirely sure what she’d thought or felt in the moment, but the _memory_ of it was knotted up with a vague thread of feeling: _I_ want _him to._

It was the worst kind of realisation.

“Lily, love, you’re staring into the distance and not saying anything,” Mary said. “I’m not _with_ you. I can’t read your expression. Hel- _lo?_ ”

She pressed a hand to her mouth — her traitor mouth! “Something definitely happened,” she said again, decisively squaring her shoulders. “How could I be so — so _awful!_ ”

There was a touch of defensiveness in Mary’s voice. “You were extremely drunk. He’s fit—”

“That’s beside the point—”

“—don’t beat yourself up, it’s pointless—”

“—but how could I—”

“—well, what’s done is _done_ , isn’t it?”

“No!” Lily hissed. “What’s done _isn’t_ done, or it shouldn’t have been done, but I did it anyway!”

She wasn’t imagining her friend’s coldness now. “I understand you hold yourself to a higher standard than anyone else, Lily, but self-flagellation doesn’t help you now. You have two choices, so stop wailing and listen to me.”

Lily bit back a snide retort. She was aware, dimly, that Mary was the girl blokes did this with, and bemoaning her morals and poor choices made Mary out to be a bad person too. And she didn’t _think_ Mary was a bad person. But, well, she _was_ known to make bad decisions. It wasn’t poor form for her to think so, was it? She wanted the best for her friend. It wasn’t _judgment_.

“Right, I’m listening,” she said, because there was nothing else to say and because Mary had been pointedly silent, waiting for her acknowledgment.

“Option one, you tell him, fully and honestly, what happened. Yes, you kissed someone else. But the circumstances matter.”

“But—”

“No, you listen. It’s not making excuses, it’s giving him important context. You were very drunk, as was the other person involved. You don’t have feelings for him. You were in a difficult place, emotionally. It was a split-second bad decision, and you regret it. Does that seem like a fair characterisation of what happened?” 

Mary was every bit the efficient advisor Lily had expected her to be. Somehow, it didn’t feel _good_. She almost wanted to be told she had been horrid. 

Maybe Doe had had a point, about her playing the martyr.

“I think so,” Lily said finally, “but it _sounds_ like making excuses.”

“He deserves the full truth, doesn’t he? So that’s option one. You tell him everything, and he gets to decide what happens next. Maybe that’s a humiliating public dumping.”

“Mary!”

“It might be what happens. And you have to reconcile yourself to that possibility.”

Lily squirmed in her seat. “What about — option two?”

Mary sighed. “Don’t tell him. From this moment on you’re committed to him. You make things better, by being _there_ and caring about him. Honesty isn’t always the best policy.”

“I thought honesty is the foundation of any good relationship,” Lily said stubbornly.

“Yeah, maybe a thirty-year marriage!” Mary said, exasperated. “But you’re seventeen, and it’s been, what, seven months?”

Her stomach lurched. _Seven months_ , and she’d thrown it down the bloody toilet. “I don’t know, Mare. I don’t know if my conscience can bear it.”

A rustle, a sigh. “That’s fair enough, Lily. You’ll have to rip the plaster off right away, then. No putting it off, like you did about the sex. Shut _up_ , Andrew, don’t eavesdrop!” A brief scuffle, before Mary returned to the phone. “You need to tell him the first chance you get.”

“Right,” Lily said, her voice very small. 

She wished she could ask her mother for advice. No — she couldn’t bear to even imagine the disappointment on her mother's face if she’d explained the circumstances. She did not, as a rule, get very drunk and snog boys who weren’t her boyfriends.

But Mary had a point. The circumstances had blurred the rules. She considered and discarded that little string of feeling, that horrible, insidious, _weak_ little _I want him to._ That had been the alcohol talking, and the — the emotional distress. Besides, she had been understanding and kind when Dex had failed her, hadn’t she? Was it too much to expect the same from him?

No. That wasn’t fair. They weren’t the same situations. To equate them was to do him a disservice. She sighed and drew her knees up to her chest. 

“It’s _okay_ , Lily,” Mary said. “Really. You don’t win points with the universe by hating yourself.”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “I know.”

Mary sighed, as if aware this was a lost cause. “Well, would it ease your sleep a bit to confirm with James that something _did_ happen?”

“No!” Lily said quickly, blood rushing to her face at the very thought. “No, I can’t, that’s — no. How would I even ask?”

“You would walk up to him, say, ‘Can I have a word?’ He’d say yes. Then you’d pull him aside, and say, ‘Hey, did we snog the other night?’ And then he would say yes or no, and everything would be all right.”

“It wouldn’t be all right,” Lily pointed out. “It wouldn’t be all right if he said _yes_.”

Mary’s sigh was a touch more ragged, impatient, this time. “But that’s no different from what you think now, is it? You’d know for cert.”

But she didn’t _want_ to know for cert. She didn’t want to think, for a second, that she was _that_ sort of girl. The sort of girl who would so brazenly throw her principles, her promises, to the wind. The sort of girl who had weakness of character. 

“I can’t ask him,” said Lily firmly.

“ _I_ can ask him, if you like?” Mary said, evidently trying to make this offer as gently as possible.

“Please don’t. I couldn’t bear it if — if I was making it up, and _he_ thought _I_ thought we’d snogged — oh, God!” Lily pressed a hand to her forehead. _Go out with me, Evans, go on_. It was the same humiliating sourness. No, she couldn't handle him thinking she was some sad, pathetic loser, inventing a kiss...

“You’re not making any sense. You’re just imagining the worst possible scenarios in _both_ situations, Lily, and you’re going to drive yourself batty doing it.”

“Well, I don’t have to say anything right _now_ , do I?” Lily said. A lump was rising in her throat. “I don’t — I—” Her voice cracked.

“ _Lily_ ,” Mary said softly. “Please don’t cry. I promise you it’ll be fine.”

But how could it be? Her mother was gone, she was moving house, and everything would be different. And she felt as though she had changed too, without realising it — she’d woken up, hungover and bleary, that Sunday, and she’d not been the same girl. 

“Hey, listen to me,” said Mary, “are you listening?”

“Yes,” Lily sniffled.

“Be honest with yourself right now. Do you have feelings for James? At all? The slightest, tiniest feeling?”

“No,” she said at once, the urgency in her friend’s voice startling her to attention. “No, not — not other than the drunk I’d-kiss-you kind.” Because that was what the little string was; it was stupid to pretend it hadn’t existed at all.

“You’re sure?” Mary said. "Remember in second year, when—"

She made a sound of impatience; she was not in the mood for Mary's dogged, exacting explanation of how she secretly fancied James and why he secretly fancied her, which she'd been treated to for most of fourth and fifth year. Neither was relevant to what had happened the other night, and neither was _true_ anyway.

"Mary, things that happened in second year are so entirely unrelated to who we are today that even if they were true they wouldn't matter. All right?" The words came out with more heat than she'd intended.

"I'm only asking because it’s not fair to either of them, taking option two if you do.”

Lily shook her head before remembering her friend couldn’t see her. “I’m not taking option two. I’m taking option one, full disclosure.”

“Good. You’re telling him, when?”

“The first time I see him,” she recited obediently.

“No, the first chance you have _to_ see him. You can’t see him a week into term and say, ‘Oh, right, by the way!’ You need to seek him out.”

She clung to the conviction in Mary’s voice. “Right. Yeah, that’s what I meant.”

“It’ll be fine. You’re the bravest person I know,” said Mary.

She laughed a little. “Thanks, Mare.” A pause. “He’s been really, honestly...lovely, this whole time, about Mum.”

“Dex?” 

She was so taken aback that she stumbled over her next words. “Well, yes. But also — James. He’s been a great help. A — a really good friend. I don’t want a stupid drunken snog getting in between us.” 

“If things seem to be the same now, then I don’t think it will, Lily,” Mary said slowly. “Although—” She cut herself off.

“Although?” Lily prodded.

“Although, I do think you should speak to him about it. Clear up what happened, make sure he understands there’s no feelings involved. There’s a third person here, Lily, and pretending he has no impact on the matter is insensitive.” The stiff coldness had crept back into Mary’s voice.

 _Oh_. “You’re right,” she said. “You’re — you’re right.”

“I’m not saying you have to sort it all out at once, at King’s Cross. I’m saying, these are the things you ought to think about.” A breathy little laugh. “These are the things I wish some boys had thought about, with me. And the things I wish _I’d_ thought about, with them.”

“I know. I understand where you’re coming from.” She’d been absentmindedly playing with the telephone cord, and now it was in a tangled clump. She thought of the Gordian knot, and imagined slicing right through the mess she’d made of things. She winced.

“And this isn’t the end of my advice to you. You know if you want to talk about it again on the train, or in the dorm, or every bloody day until the summer hols, I’m there.”

Lily laughed again. “I know, Mare. Thank you,” she added, with complete sincerity. 

“You’re obviously very welcome. I’m glad you told me.”

“Just — don’t tell anyone else?”

Mary was quiet for a moment. “Okay. I won’t.”

On the very last day she still had a home in Cokeworth, Lily Evans went to the playground. The work had all been done; only the drive remained, down to London. And then what? Possibility, uncertainty. Her mother's memory, left behind.

No, that wasn't right. Her mother was always with them. Or so the platitude went, didn't it? 

She gravitated towards the swings. One was occupied by a small girl, pushed by a slightly smaller girl. Lily wondered at that — the fact that these two girls were working together, just one swinging, while the other swing sat empty. With a smile in their direction, she took the free swing, wrapping her fingers around the rusty chains holding it up. She hadn't been on one in years — not since Petunia had grown tired of playing with her. But her body knew what to do immediately.

She pushed off. Falling into a rhythm was quick and easy. _Faster_ _,_ she thought, _higher._ And her legs obeyed, until every muscle was working in tandem towards a single aim. Her breathing eased. Her hair was loose; with each swoop, it fluttered close and whooshed away. It was almost scientific, the act of swinging. Extra pressure with her hands as she flew backwards, leaning forwards with her motion. The little girls had stopped swinging to watch her.

Lily worried, for a moment, that she was crying. She patted a cheek nervously. But, nothing. The wind drowned out all sound. She was intimidatingly high. She was starting to sweat beneath her coat. _Jump_ , said a voice in her head. She'd leapt from higher heights, as a child. She _could_ do it. Two separate visions appeared before her: herself, trying to jump and winding up tangled in the swing, crashing to the ground. Herself, flying easily from the swing and soaring away into the clouds.

Who was she now? The girl who jumped, or the girl who fell?

It would be so simple to just drag the toe of her shoe in the sand and slow herself down. And yet, so anticlimactic. 

Lily jumped.

She landed on her feet, slightly wobbly but upright. It took a moment for the pain of impact, for the pounding in her ears to fade. She glanced over a shoulder, forgetting the distance of years, and almost expected to see a disapproving Tuney and a half-smiling Severus. Of course, she was alone. 

She could only go forward. Lily dusted off her hands and started back home.

> _James,_
> 
> _You and Sirius are not using me to befriend the neighbours, thank you very much. You can do that yourselves. Didn’t your mother teach you to play nice?_
> 
> _Thought so. I’m attaching the recipe here. Thank me later._
> 
> _Tuney and I have officially moved out of the house, and it’s in the realtors’ hands. I’m currently camped on her sofa in London, which I don’t think she enjoys very much — she told me to wash my feet before I put them up, if you’d believe it, as if I’d been jumping in puddles minutes ago. It’s very uncomfortable, and I can tell I’m going to sleep very badly. Fancy sending me some more insomniac’s chocolate?_
> 
> _See you on the train._
> 
> _Lily_

Petunia drove her to King’s Cross early in the morning, so she could go to work afterwards. Lily considered wandering through the station to work up the nerve for what she had to do, but Peppermint was growing restless at all the noise, and passersby were staring. She dove through the barrier and emerged on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. 

At once she remembered how she’d stood on this platform just a few months ago, with her mother and her sister. She had been so nervous, thinking Dex would give her the cold shoulder because he hadn’t owled her in a few days. But she had been wrong about him.

And, as it turned out, he’d been wrong about her.

Willing the dampness in her eyes to fade, Lily went to stow away her trunk. If she had hoped for a repeat occurrence of January, and a chance to put off the conversation for as long as possible, she hoped in vain. The moment she’d dropped off her trunk in a compartment and stepped into the corridor again, she came face to face with Dex. Before Lily could say so much as a _hello, we need to talk_ , he pulled her close for a kiss. Her stomach flipped — and _not_ in the good way. She was going to tell him what she’d done, and this very kiss was going to be tainted.

“Do you think we can sit together?” she said quickly. “Just the two of us?”

He nodded. “Of course — shall I put my things here with yours?”

She acquiesced, and they sat down side by side. He gave her thigh a little squeeze; she smiled at him. Lily glanced out of the window and caught sight of Mary, this time without her family. Mary waved, then noticed Dex in Lily’s compartment; Lily knew that her friend would make sure they had their privacy. _Good luck_ , Mary mouthed when Dex wasn’t looking.

 _Rip the plaster off, Lily_ , she reminded herself. But while the train was still stationary, people were ducking in and out to say hi. She would wait until it started, yes, that was a good idea. In the meantime she made small talk with Dex, listening attentively to how his Easter hols had gone. What felt like ages later, the conductor’s whistle sounded the all-aboard, and the train doors began to slam shut. There was the familiar last-minute scuffle to get into compartments — and a familiar drawl outside their door. Lily’s stomach once more did its unpleasant lurch.

“Relax, Podmore, I’ll be out of your hair in a minute,” James was saying, and the door to their compartment slid open.

Patrick Podmore, the disgruntled Auror, was indeed in the corridor with James. 

“Potter, for Merlin’s sake—” he looked as though he wanted very badly to use stronger language “—get back to your seat.”

“Yeah, doing it,” James said, rummaging through his bag and not budging in the least. “’Lo, Evans, Evans’s man.” Then he found whatever he was looking for and chucked it at Lily.

She made a sound of protest but caught it on instinct — it was a small bundle of chocolates. 

“I was joking,” she said feebly. “I didn’t actually—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said James, waving a hand. “Lily Evans, wonder-girl, no help necessary. But I’ve got no use for them.”

“ _Potter_ ,” Podmore said through clenched teeth. “Seat. Now. Unless you want to join Evers—”

“Evans,” Lily and James corrected at the same time.

“— _Evans_ and this fellow here.”

Dex looked only mildly offended.

“Pass, thanks,” James said cheerfully. With an outrageously big wink in Lily’s direction, he said, “Sweet dreams,” and shut the compartment door once more.

She was sure she looked stricken and guilty, and that Dex would know what had happened at once. But he only rolled his eyes. 

At least this _had_ to mean James didn’t remember — or, he didn’t care. Both possibilities were very much in Lily’s favour. She let out a breath. Dex was stretching, yawning. He appeared not to notice her dilemma.

“Thank you,” she began, and he startled to attention.

“Whatever for?” he said, laughing.

“Well, for being so good to me these past few weeks,” she said uncomfortably. “I can’t have been easy to put up with.”

Dex grew incredulous. “Don’t be silly. I’m here for you. Isn’t that what we promised each other? Seriousness?”

Her heart was hammering. “It — it is. I just mean, I understand, if you want to take a step back. If you — I mean, you’ve got enough on in your own life, you needn’t be saddled with _my_ problems.”

His smile softened. “I want to be saddled with your problems.” And then, with no preamble, and a casualness that she might otherwise have found charming, Dex said, “I love you.”

“You — what?” Lily wanted to pinch herself. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening. This was a horrible dream, brought on by Petunia’s rock-hard sofa, and she would wake up to find that it was Monday morning and she had to go to the train station… Or, better still, she would wake up and find it was March 26th, and her mother was not ill, and nothing had gone wrong at all.

He couldn’t love her. He couldn’t possibly. They had agreed on _serious_ not two months before, hadn’t they?

He gave her a sheepish grin, pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Sorry, that was a bit forward, wasn’t it? It’s all right if you don’t want to say it back. Really. Just say it when you feel it.”

“O-Okay,” Lily said, because what _could_ she say? Maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised at all, because it was _so_ Dex — to be spontaneous and open-hearted and unbothered by what convention dictated was the _right time_ to say I love you. Just as he’d asked her to be his girlfriend: straightforward and never expecting too much of her. “Are — you sure?”

“Yeah, of course I am.” He grew sombre, taking her hand. “I know this is an awful time, and I can’t imagine what it’s like for you. But I’m ready to be there for you, _properly_ , the way you deserve. And maybe to other blokes this is a big momentous occasion that requires loads of thinking, but—” He shrugged. “You’re amazing, and brilliant, and gorgeous. What’s there to think about? Of course I love you.”

In the end Lily wasn’t the bravest person Mary knew. She was a big fat coward. Because she took one look at this declaration and decided it was a life preserver; she leapt for it, thinking, _option two, option two, option two_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, how 'bout that? [ducks] this chapter literally got longer every single time i revised at it so thanks for getting through it with me!
> 
> much thanks to "mirrorball" and "seven" by taylor swift, "lily of the valley" by queen, "carry that weight" by the beatles, "do-wah-doo" and "later on" by kate nash, and "cheated hearts" by the yeah yeah yeahs for inspo. my reference for the layout and location of the evans home/cokeworth was madasafish's incredibly thorough "spinner's end" essay, if you're interested in reading that/seeing a floor plan that i took creative license with. more notes on this chap can be found on my tumblr, @thequibblah.
> 
> the little section break icons are courtesy of freepik on flaticon — yes, i spent a day adding them to old chapters, what of it
> 
> anyway, stay tuned for the next chapter, which will feature some more hogwarts drama and another fulfilled prophecy... thank you so very much for reading, and please leave a comment if you enjoyed!
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	23. Whatever Normal Means

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Lily's mother passes away over Easter. The Marauders and Lily's friends come to cheer her up, and they play a drinking game. Lily and James have a moment, and Lily misremembers the moment as a kiss. She means to tell Dex, but then he drops the L-word. She hopes James doesn't have feelings for her, but based on her interpretation of him asking her out last year, she's pretty confident. Mary kissed Chris Townes, who's dating someone else, and feels especially bad about it now that she's counselled Lily through her "infidelity."
> 
> NOW: James learns Very Pertinent Information. Sirius takes charge. The wannabe Death Eater gang has a new directive, and a new addition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the love you've been giving this fic, here and on tumblr! <3 This chapter is dedicated to **saerw / Hanna** , who drew [the most GORGEOUS portraits](https://thequibblah.tumblr.com/post/628628428547031040/ive-been-reading-thequibblahs-perfect-jily) of the girls on tumblr and honestly I still can't believe my eyes when I look at them.

_i. Revelation_

There was nothing like Quidditch in a light April drizzle. Enough time had passed after the debacle that was the match against Hufflepuff — that conflict of broken wrists, underperforming captains, and a lucky Snitch capture — that the Gryffindor Quidditch team had regained some missing confidence. James felt good about facing Ravenclaw in May. 

Winning was ideal, obviously. Winning would mean a straight shot to the Quidditch Cup, an undefeated run. But if they lost by a reasonable margin, they could still nab the cup after all. So it was an excellent position to be in.

The rain was gentle, the breeze was perfect, every drill turned out exactly as James wanted it to. And yet. He had the same niggling memory in the back of his mind, and no amount of goals could dismiss it. 

“Pack up!” James called. “Park, Mallory, it’s your day.”

In an effort to _not think about it_ , he dismounted his broom and jogged after Germaine, who was making her way to the changing room. She was shaking the water from her hair; she smiled at him as he fell into step beside her.

“Good practice, that,” she said.

“Yeah, sharp flying. You’ll knock Vance right out of the air.”

He’d thought Emmeline was a safe topic, after the girls had made up, but Germaine went faintly green at the mention of her.

“Maybe,” she said glumly, avoiding his gaze.

“Should I ask?”

She shook her head. “Sometimes you read someone wrong, is all. And then you need to — set them free or whatever.”

James snorted. “You could do a lot better.”

The smile returned to her face at that, though it was a touch disbelieving. “You don’t have to shamelessly flatter me, Potter. Do you want something from me?”

Did he? All he’d wanted was conversation, but he could make something more out of this one if he wanted.

“Well, I was wondering how Evans is faring,” he began. 

It wasn’t a _lie_ , anyway. He _was_ wondering. He hadn’t seen her up close since the train. Obviously the correspondence they’d kept up over Easter hadn’t continued, but rather than cementing their friendship the holiday seemed to have unmoored it. It had been easier to write to her than speak to her, when they weren’t face to face and they were far removed from school, the contentious context of the past five-odd years. 

Besides, being physically away from her had meant James could pretend they hadn’t, in fact, almost kissed the other night. 

That was the memory he could not shake: the dim, orange glow of the light outside the bar, the way she tilted her face up to his, the maddening pull of her. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t that stupid. Lily had made her feelings towards him clear the previous year, and besides, she was happily seeing Dex Fortescue.

Kissing her would have been a very bad idea — a bad idea the likes of which even James, purveyor of plenty of poorly-considered plans, did not want to test. So he didn’t. Obviously. 

Perhaps she hadn’t even noticed the momentary _almost_. Nothing had changed in the tone of her letters. That made sense. To Lily it had been a night like any other, and now that they were back at school she was a little awkward because she’d remembered their complicated pasts. And, well, she had loads of other things to worry about.

Yes, it all made sense to James. He was not Captain Wentworth, and she was _certainly_ no Anne Elliot.

“She’s—” Germaine grimaced. “Well, she carries on, you know Lily. She’s sleeping badly, I know that. But on a daily basis, she’s...functioning.” She sighed, then gave James a look of appraisal. “You know, you could ask her yourself.”

“I’m not trying to overstep,” said James vaguely.

She scoffed as they entered the changing room. “Why would you be? You were writing her all break, anyway.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, as if he’d forgotten, stowing away his broom. He didn’t want to sidetrack Germaine, who seemed like she had more to say. They faced away from each other by silent agreement, stripping off sweaty practice jerseys. 

“I’m relieved as all hell, by the way, that you two’ve decided to get on. It wasn’t easy, being mates with you both.” She rolled her eyes. “First loyalty to her, of course, no offence.” James made a noncommittal _none taken_ noise. “But that day during O.W.L.s, it made things really bad.” She gave him a stern look, which managed to be intimidating despite the foot of height James had on her. “It really fucked with her, you know.”

He opened his mouth to point out that it hadn’t been _all_ him, that the bulk of it had been Snape using that word, but he figured Germaine didn’t need to be treated to the same speech he’d spent all summer giving his mates.

“I know,” he said instead. 

“Like, really, _really_. She had a shit summer, until Dex. Bloody Snape, obviously, and then you trying to show her up—”

James blinked, stopped halfway through unbuckling his arm guards, and held up a hand. “I’m sorry, me trying to what?”

Germaine hadn’t turned round to face him, as if this conversation was so obvious it did not require eye contact. Her voice held a touch of impatience. “You trying to mock her, I mean.”

He stared at her back, trawling through his memory of that day to try and decipher what, specifically, the _fuck_ she was on about. 

“At what point,” he said slowly, when his search came up short, “was I mocking her?”

“James,” Germaine huffed, “stop being thick. Your big go-out-with-me stunt, obviously.”

He didn’t know what to think. He wasn’t sure he knew _how_ to think anymore. All he could manage was a strangled “That’s what she thought it was?”

“Of course.” She sounded suspicious now. James hurriedly turned back to his stall and ripped off the rest of his braces.

“How’d she figure that?” he said, gritting his teeth in the effort to keep his voice even.

“Well, it’s not as though you had any romantic inclinations towards her before that,” Germaine said. “You only fought with her non-stop. She thought you hated her. So, duh, why would you ask her out?”

“Right. _Right_.”

“Why are you acting like this is news to you?”

James glanced over his shoulder; Germaine had a towel wrapped around herself, but she looked like she wanted to have her hands on her hips. 

“No, just — it’s just embarrassing, because I was an idiot then,” James said, which was not a lie, and looked away once more. “That _is_ what you all think, though. You and Lily and Mary and Dorcas.”

“Mary and Doe are funny on the subject, you’d have to interrogate them. But it’s Lily’s big theory, so it’s obviously what she thinks. It’s what _I_ think because I don’t think you’re an idiot who actually fancied her and thought that was the way to get...her…” She drew in a sudden breath.

Well, his time had run out.

“ _Potter_ ,” Germaine said sternly, “we’re not wrong, are we? It was a joke. Wasn’t it?”

James spun around to face her, snatched his own towel, and gave her a wide smile. “’Course, don’t be daft. I’m glad Evans isn’t so self-centred as to think—” he couldn’t say it with a straight face “—well, you know.”

The suspicion hadn’t yet left her expression. “Really.”

He rolled his eyes. “ _Really_. You sound like Mary, with all her mental theories.”

And then he headed to the showers, blasé as could be.

Twenty minutes later, having used the map to track down Sirius and haul him to their dorm, James ran a hand through his damp hair and paced the length of the carpet.

“Birds — are — _maddening!_ ” was his opening salvo.

“Yeah, well, we knew that,” Sirius said, rifling through the boys’ record collection. “What’d Moony say about the Gobstones?”

“Derivative,” James said without missing a beat, “of the Rolling Stones. Would you listen to me?”

Sirius snorted and put on the Rolling Stones. James shot him a withering glare as the opening to “Satisfaction” began to play. 

“You’re not fucking funny, Padfoot.”

Sirius dropped onto the carpet and rolled his eyes. “So explain to me what, exactly, is going on with Marissa Beasley.”

“This isn’t about Marissa.”

“ _Yeah_ , no shit, I know what it’s about. Who, rather. Or is it whom?”

“Sirius.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Beasley. What’s that supposed to be about?”

James sighed, realising his rant would not be entertained until his best mate’s questions had been answered. “I don’t follow.”

“Exactly,” Sirius pronounced. “You _don’t_ follow, because you insist on being ridiculously thick-skulled about this—”

“Sod off.”

“—how, pray tell, is Marissa any different from the enchanting Mel, whom you spent last summer with?” He spread his arms wide. “Because it looks to me like you’re not over Evans, and you’re still doing the same thing you were doing last summer. And it didn’t work then.” 

James opened his mouth to argue, but Sirius forged on.

“I’m willing to believe this will go better, because Marissa's actually, physically present, but it seems like a bit of a lost cause, mate.”

James hated, briefly, that his friend could read him so easily. It was embarrassing. “Why’s that?”

“Because she’s in your boat, isn’t she? Pining after Dearborn, as if that stone-cold arsehole has ever given anyone time of day.” Sirius rolled his eyes again. “So, whatever, except you’re both too bloody noble to use each other to get over your hangups. Instead you have this idiotic shagging arrangement and you went to Hogsmeade once—”

“Hey.”

“—I mean, fair play, she’s fit and all, but. Where’s it going?”

James scrambled for a response, and came up with, “You’re asking about my intentions, like you’re someone’s mum.”

Sirius threw the empty _Hot Rocks_ sleeve at him, missing by quite a distance.

“Shut the fuck up, Prongs. What I’m trying to tell you is, you need to make an effort. No mooning after one girl while you’ve got another right there. Fuck, I mean, if Evans couldn’t care less that you fancied her or—” He stopped. “What?”

James had frozen in place, mouth open. “Hang on,” he said slowly, “hang on, you’re fucking right.”

“I’ve been waiting to hear those words.”

“No, _no_ , not for the reason you think—” He resumed his manic pacing, rumpling his hair once more. “She doesn’t know I fancy her. Fancied. Oh, fuck, whatever, you know.”

Sirius guffawed. “Yeah, right, and my mum’s Celestina Warbeck. You asked her out in front of our whole sodding year.”

James shook his head emphatically. “No!”

“No, you didn’t, and that was a group hallucination?”

“Shut up and listen. Germaine just told me that they thought it was a joke.”

Sirius’s eyes went as round as dinner plates.

“No way in hell,” he breathed. “Did they not realise your bickering was repressed foreplay? All right, all right, I’ll stop, Christ—” This last part because James had flung a pillow at him, which Sirius had only just managed to bat out of the way.

“I don’t know the rest of it, but the girls all thought the — the asking out thing, that it was me mocking her.”

Sirius clicked his tongue, considering. “It _was_ a dense play.”

“ _Thanks_.”

“Not a problem. But I can feel myself losing respect for them, right now, if they really didn’t see through your bullshit.”

“Well, Mary and Doe suspect, I think. But the other two don’t.” He scuffed the rug with his toe.

“Again, losing respect.”

“But this is a good thing.” He looked up and met Sirius’s gaze.

Sirius arched his brows. “It is a good thing because…?”

James threw his hands up in triumph. “Because she _never knew_. She never knew I fancied her.”

“Fancy, present tense,” Sirius corrected.

“Do not start with me.”

“Okay, Mum.”

“No, you don’t understand. She never knew.”

Sirius yawned and reclined on the rug. “I heard you the first time, Prongs.”

“Yeah, well, if she _never knew_ then that means—” James huffed out a laugh. Having cycled through confusion, denial, frustration, and anger, he had finally arrived at the bright side. “Don’t you get it? This is a do-over. Because if she never knew, then we can just be mates, and there isn’t this awkward _thing_ in between us.”

Sirius took this in and was silent for a long moment. James, who had expected an immediate quip in response, held his breath. 

“Yeah,” he said at last. “You’re right. That does make sense.”

At that moment Remus and Peter entered the room, engaged in a very serious conversation about Peter’s big idea — so dubbed because the other three boys had grown tired of telling him it was not feasible, and the shorthand was simply easier on everyone.

“—oh, tell him, would you?” Remus said as he saw the other two, shaking his head.

“It’ll work this year,” Peter said, “honest, I think this is the summer—”

James gave Sirius a look that meant _don’t make a thing of it, I’ll tell them later_. Sirius shrugged, flipped _Hot Rocks_ around, and dropped the needle on “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” 

“I’ve just had the strangest conversation of my life,” Germaine said as she sat down at the Gryffindor table for supper. “Where’s Doe?”

“Headache,” Mary sighed. “We dropped her off at the Hospital Wing just now.”

“Oh, boo.” 

Lily passed her the lamb chops without her having to ask. “What was the strangest conversation of your life?”

“Yeah, right—” She checked up and down the table to ensure none of the Marauders were in earshot. Then she turned to Lily. “Potter was asking about you after practice.”

Mary sat up straighter. “Oh, that’s nice of him,” she said, but there was something not so casual in her tone.

“Yeah, Lil, I think he thinks you’re being a bit distant now that we’re back at school.”

Lily was drawing lines through her gravy with a fork. “Well, I can hardly write him all the time now that we’re in the same building,” she said drily.

“No, duh. You can _speak_ to him, though.”

Lily nodded stiffly. 

“Don’t be angry that I brought it up, but I told him last year was fucked. You know, the Lake—” She waved a hand to summarise all that had taken place after the Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.

“You did?” Mary arched an eyebrow. “What’d he say?”

Germaine shrugged. “That he’s embarrassed about what he said. Oh!” She clapped a hand to her forehead. “Oh, yes, and Lily and I were right all along. He doesn’t fancy her. Didn’t. Whatever, you know what I mean.”

Under normal circumstances, this would be where Mary scoffed and said, “Yeah, that’s what he _would_ say, if he fancied her.” But Mary kept silent instead, only humming as if this was a topic of vague interest. Germaine frowned, puzzled but not displeased. Lily’s shoulders slumped in what looked like relief.

“I thought so,” she said, and a fleeting smile crossed her face before she turned back to her plate.

* * *

_ii. Here, Then There_

“I think I’m going to fail,” Lily said, not for the first time that morning. 

They were in the Three Broomsticks, but she was only drinking water, certain as she was that anything else would make her ill and ruin her Apparition test. There had been some debate about whether or not the test would take place in Hogsmeade, or in the castle itself — or at least that was the rumour the prefects had heard. Lily wished it _had_ been in the Great Hall after all. Then she could have convinced herself that it was only another lesson, and she wouldn’t have been quite so nervous.

But there had been a break in the Hogsmeade murder case, apparently. The compulsion spell that had affected — but not killed — the two who’d died over Christmas had definitively been traced to objects in Dervish and Banges. The shop had been roped off and was currently swarming with Ministry officials. Lily didn’t think she felt much safer with this development — the _Prophet_ had been vague on details — but it seemed to be good enough for the Ministry.

“You’re not going to fail,” Dex said. He was sitting opposite her at their table, chin in one hand, and he wore a soft smile as he looked at her. His gaze made Lily — well, _skittish_ wasn’t the right word, but there he was, smiling at her, and she felt as though he were reading her mind. Like he’d see the truth of it all if he looked closely enough.

She sighed, fiddling with the cool metal clasp of her watch. “But what if…”

“You managed it in lessons, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah… But I didn’t manage it in Hogsmeade.” 

They had spent the week after Easter practising in the village, and Lily had mucked it up every chance. Granted, she hadn’t Splinched herself again, which she was glad for. But just because she hadn’t failed as spectacularly as she could’ve, didn’t mean any of her attempts from the past few days would earn her a license.

Dex shook his head. “I’m telling you, it’ll be over before you know it.”

“That’ll be a consolation, if it goes really badly,” Lily couldn’t help saying. She sighed. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be — annoying. I haven’t been able to do it since... _Mum,_ and I…”

He took her hand and gave her fingers a squeeze. “Don’t overthink it."

"I know." A breath. "I wish things would be — normal." But there was no normal. Not anymore. Not now that she was an orphan — _an orphan_ , like something out of a novel — and a cheater and a liar.

He squeezed her hand. "I _know._ You should probably head. You’ve got five minutes.”

Her palms felt suddenly sweaty. She wiped them on her skirt, pecked her boyfriend on the cheek — ignored the guilty twinge she felt — and was out of the door. 

The post office was the meeting spot. Lily hurried through the damp spring morning in that direction, heart pounding. There were some forms to fill and papers to sign; she did so under the watchful gaze of a Ministry official. Araminta Belby, she supposed, was off with whoever was Apparating just then. 

“Best of luck,” said a voice from behind her. 

Lily jumped and whirled around to see Sirius Black, lounging against the post office counter. He gave her a two-fingered wave.

“Oh, thanks,” she replied. Did Sirius know what had happened, with James? Probably. James would certainly have told his best mates, and now they all four of them thought she, Lily, was an incorrigibly dishonourable person. She kept a straight face, however, and said, “How did yours go?”

“Passed, piece of cake.” Sirius shrugged. “Funny, too, I’d never managed it before.”

“You — really?”

He nodded. “Not that I tried in class. It was inside me all along, I reckon.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “I’m so pleased you’ve managed to tap into your latent powers of Apparition.”

Sirius mock-bowed. "That Hufflepuff of yours gave you any tips? Or do you not keep him around for his brains?"

She sighed, though all she could think of was _he must know, he_ must _know_. "That's the second time in as many months one of you lot has asked me about Dex. Hogwarts gossip must really be failing if _I'm_ a topic of conversation."

He was looking at her very carefully, though he was smiling faintly. She felt rather like a butterfly, pinned into place. "Prongs give you any good advice, then? Since you're such good mates now?"

Lily had often heard Sirius speak with that same caustic tone of voice, but she had never before been on the receiving end of it. She blinked at him, struggling to formulate a response.

"Are you cross with me, for some reason?" Already she felt her defensive hackles rising. She couldn't think of a single thing she might've done to earn his ire. He had been perfectly friendly to her over Easter.

"What makes you think that?" Sirius inspected his shoulder and brushed off an invisible speck of dirt. 

"Just about everything in this conversation."

He shrugged once more. "Maybe you can't read people as well as you think you can." Finally he looked up at her once more, but she could not make anything out from his expression. "You love him, or something? Fortescue?"

Lily felt the flush rise in her cheeks. For a moment she thought he'd overheard something he shouldn't have. But, no, there was a simpler explanation. Sirius was playing the protective best mate, obviously — but, equally obviously, he didn't need to, because James didn't like her like that. He'd told Germaine so himself. 

"That's none of your business," she said coolly. They stared at one another; Lily wondered if he had waited on purpose after his test to run into her, so he could have this very conversation.

Sirius's smile, ironic though it was, returned. As if they'd never discussed anything else, he said, “Really, though, don’t worry. Bertram Aubrey was before me, and _he_ passed. If that clown could do it, I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“How very encouraging." She didn't have time to deal with Sirius bloody Black and his mind games.

And then Araminta Belby was ducking into the post office with a pale but smiling Amelia Bones. “Next — Evans, Lily?”

“That’s me,” said Lily, straightening. Sirius shot her a thumbs up that felt a touch sarcastic. She followed Belby into the chill once more.

Germaine had gone to take her test, and Lily — having passed hers — was back and talking to her boyfriend, which left Doe in the dubious company of Peter, Sirius, and James in the Three Broomsticks. Mary still hadn’t shown. Doe was twitching with anxiety, but she could hardly have walked round the whole village looking for her friend. Nothing had happened to her.

Nothing, and she almost believed it. 

“Refills?” Doe said presently.

“Thoughtful of you, Walker,” said Sirius. “Prongs? Firewhisky?”

James rolled his eyes. “You can’t _trick_ me into taking the test drunk.”

“You almost said yes last time,” said Peter.

“Traitor.”

“Butterbeer for Potter, noted,” said Doe, and she went to find Madam Rosmerta before the boys’ arguing could distract her from her purpose.

The barmaid was, characteristically, surrounded by admirers and people jostling for their own refills. Doe resigned herself to a long wait. Turning away from the bar, she surveyed the mostly-full inn. Once again the Hogwarts Aurors were posted in the corners of the room — but, she realised, Alice St. Martin was clearly off-duty, at a table nearby with an older man.

“—so, the Hong Kong Longs will try and tell you my ancestors changed their names to fit in with ridiculous English customs,” the man was saying, “except that Long is a Norman surname as well, so they would have fit in just fine. If you ask me, they chose Longbottom for a laugh.”

Alice did laugh. Doe realised the man must have been Frank Longbottom’s father. He had his son’s habit of gesturing as he spoke, wildly; this posed a funny contrast to his accent, which was the clipped and polished voice of an old-fashioned BBC presenter. She amused herself by imagining him exclaiming “Pip pip!” 

Someone appeared beside her, Butterbeer in hand. Dorcas smiled at Frank, then gestured back at his girlfriend.

“That’s your dad, isn’t it?”

“What gave it away? The loud retelling of Longbottom family history?” Frank said, grinning. 

“Well, yes,” Doe said. “Nice of him to visit.”

Frank huffed a laugh. “Dad’s on holiday, which is about as common as a blue moon. I don’t know what convinced him to take a week off, but here he is. I thought he ought to meet Alice while he has the minute to spare.”

“He’s not an Auror, is he?”

“Oh, God, no. We Longbottoms—” this in the crisp affected voice of his father “—have always been diplomats. He’s ICW.”

She raised her brows, duly impressed. “And you never wanted to be with the International Confederation?”

“Too much paperwork,” Frank quipped. “Although, Aurors do plenty of that too. Prepare yourself.”

Doe laughed. “Isn’t training supposed to prepare me?”

“Prepare, _mentally_ ,” said Frank. 

Doe drew a circle in the condensation on the bartop. “I suppose my mental preparation is a Wizengamot internship.” She and Madam Shafiq had kept up correspondence since Slughorn’s party, and Doe had immediately written to her secretary about it. Their decisions would only be made in May, apparently, but she was hopeful. “It’ll make me look well-rounded, won’t it, to the Auror program?”

Frank was already nodding. “Oh, yes. Law enforcement ought to have a strong understanding of the law.”

“Not that I’ll be doing anything interesting. Fetching coffee, maybe.”

He laughed. “Well, if you want something more interesting, first-year training lets up a bit during summer. Alice and I and a few of the others are going to need to practice so we don’t get rusty. You’re welcome to join.”

Doe’s heart actually lodged in her mouth. “You’re — serious?”

“I’m not joking,” Frank said, still smiling. “You’re sharp in Duelling Club, I’ve noticed. If anyone’s a surefire future Auror, it’s you. If you can spare time in between fetching coffee, well…” 

“Oh, I’d bloody love to!” Doe said, her shock giving way to a wide grin of her own. “ _Thank_ you, really, it’s so good of you to offer!”

He dismissed this with a laugh and a hand-wave. “Don’t mention it. Mentorship’s what got me here in the first place. I’m only carrying it forward.”

If Doe knew him any better, she would have flung her arms around him and hugged him. As it was, she just managed to keep her cool. After a few more minutes of idle chatter, Frank returned to his girlfriend and his father, and Doe returned to the Marauders.

“Oi, where’s my Butterbeer?” James said when she’d sat down.

“Get it yourself,” Doe said cheerfully.

Mary tried not to warily eye Dervish and Banges as she walked past. She’d done her Honeydukes shopping and then her Tomes and Scrolls shopping on her own, promising to meet Dorcas afterwards in the Three Broomsticks. She’d needed a moment to think, and the easy rhythm of errands had afforded her plenty of musing time. 

Because she knew she had to do the right thing. 

She had to take the advice she’d given Lily, and be honest. She was quite certain that Chris Townes was an irredeemable flirt, and did not care one whit about what he owed Cecily Sprucklin, but Mary herself was too mired in guilt of late. She wanted to live guilt-free, thanks very much. And giving Cecily Arithmancy lessons did not ease enough of her guilt.

So when she saw Cecily leave the Three Broomsticks and head down the Hogsmeade High Street, Mary turned around and followed. She was halfway to working up the nerve to call out to the other girl when someone seized her elbow and yanked her off-course, pulling her into an alleyway.

Mary screamed, obviously. “Let — go — of me!” Was she being mugged? Probably. She kicked viciously at her attacker, who unhanded her immediately. Then she proceeded to bash him with her very full purse.

“Ow, all right, all _right_ , Merlin, I’m not gonna hurt you!”

She paused in her beating. The man was short, shorter than her, and reedy, with an overall appearance of disreputability. He _looked_ like the sort of person who’d mug her. But he also looked vaguely familiar.

“I just want a favour, is all!” He had his hands up in surrender.

“A _favour?_ You dragged me off the street, you — you random weirdo!” 

He looked offended at this, which was a bit rich, in Mary’s opinion. “Look, love—”

Mary grimaced.

“—I need summat from the Hog’s Head, only I’m not allowed in there. So, fancy stepping in and getting it for me?” He gave her a smile, which did not work.

“Why aren’t you allowed in there?” She herself was not a frequenter of the Hog’s Head. The first and only time she’d been inside the pub had been third year, when Germaine had insisted on visiting all the Hogsmeade shops to scope them out.

“Issues with the establishment,” the man said evasively. “’S unfair, really. Don’t you want to stick it to the man?”

“No,” said Mary.

“Third table from the right, it’s sitting there. I’ll lose all me gold—”

“It’s gold? Why the fuck would you leave your gold in the Hog’s Head?” She shook her head. 

“It’s payment, sunshine.”

“Could you not call me that? Thanks?”

“It’s payment,” the man repeated. 

“Great,” said Mary, “I’ll go nab your gold and keep it for myself.”

His mouth fell open. “What! No — come off it, you wouldn’t—” His gaze fell upon her red scarf. “You’re a Gryffindor, ain’t ya? Fair play, and all that? Least that’s how I remember it.”

She frowned. “I don’t know when you went to Hogwarts, but I know plenty of conniving Gryffindors. And I’m one of them. So, thanks for the gold.” She turned on her heel; the Hog’s Head was the next building, and she _did_ want to buy some new records… 

“Here, I’ll report you!” the man said.

“Okay,” said Mary. 

He deflated, which confirmed her suspicion that he wouldn’t actually have done anything of the sort. Possibly this gold had been stolen in the first place.

“I’ll owe you a favour,” the man offered.

“I don’t even _know_ you.”

“Mundungus Fletcher, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh, I _do_ know you,” Mary said, surprised. “You’re the dodgy one that Peeves stuck in the trick stair for four days three years ago.”

Mundungus Fletcher scowled. “Bloody poltergeist.”

She sighed. “All right, I’ll get your bloody gold. If only so you’ll leave me alone.”

It was only Dung Fletcher, after all; Mary was reluctantly intrigued by him, and the prospect of hearing about whatever criminal activities he doubtless was involved in now that he’d left Hogwarts.

She stepped into the Hog’s Head and was immediately forced to squint in the dim lighting; someone had covered the grimy windows. Third table from the door — there was a little bag left there, sure enough. The bartender was looking at her with great suspicion. Mary hurried to grab the bag and was about to leave, but a group in the back caught her attention. 

They were Slytherins, most of them, but Alec Rosier was there too. And one of them, a taller, paler version of his brother, was Marius Rosier. Mary felt very trapped, all of a sudden. Avery’s back was to her, but he might turn any second and notice her… 

The door swung open, and Regulus Black stepped inside too. Whatever was happening here, Mary wanted no part of it. She made for the door at once, brushing past Regulus, who gave her a faintly disgusted look.

Once outside, Mary forgot to press Mundungus for any sort of information. She only wanted to put as much distance between herself and the group of Slytherins as possible. She thrust the bag into his hands.

“There you go,” she said shortly. “I’d better not find out you stole it from some poor grandmum doing her shopping.”

“Cheers,” Mundungus said, pocketing the gold.

There was no sign of Cecily, though. Mary suppressed a groan. She couldn't remember if the other girl was due to take her Apparition test that day or not. 

“Did you see a girl walking down the street, earlier? Shortish, dark hair, pinched sort of expression?”

“Nah, wasn’t looking.”

She believed him. Mary did groan at last, and turning away from Mundungus Fletcher, she made for the Three Broomsticks. 

She wrestled her way through the crowd to find that her mates were sitting round a table with the Marauders. Lily, she saw, was at her own table with Dex. _Not in James's line of sight_ , Mary noted.

Germaine spotted her first and waved. “Lily and I both passed!”

“I never doubted you,” Mary said. “Although, I’m sorry no one has a funny failing story.”

“ _Mary_ ,” Doe said, rolling her eyes.

“What? When I fail abysmally you’re allowed to laugh.” Wistfully, Mary added, “D’you reckon some of the Slytherins failed? Avery, maybe? I hope Avery failed.”

“Probably,” Sirius said. “Git.”

"I saw him and his gross mates in the Hog's Head," Mary said. "Rosier's gross brother included."

"What on earth were you doing in the Hog's Head?" said Germaine with a snort.

"Retrieving gold for — never mind." Judging by the looks on the Marauders' faces, that was the wrong thing to say. Mary wished she hadn't brought up the Slytherins at all.

"Did you hear what they were talking about?" James wanted to know. He looked ready to jump up and find out what they were doing himself.

"I didn't stick around to eavesdrop!" Mary said, fidgeting. "I left as soon as—" She broke off, thinking that mentioning Regulus was a very bad idea on top of this already-bad idea. "I left," she concluded lamely. Searching for a change in subject, she said, “Have any of you seen the Duckling?”

“Oh, don’t call her that,” Doe said, grimacing.

“I think she’s taking her test,” Peter said. “Prongs just got back, so…”

“Right. Alphabetical. I have to go speak with her.”

“With _Cecily Sprucklin?_ ” said Germaine. “Whatever for?”

“It’s—” Mary waved a hand. “I’ll tell you later, but I really have to catch her now.”

They had already been seated — both Rosiers, Selwyn, Avery, and Severus — by the time Regulus stomped into the Hog’s Head.

“Given the success of—” Marius had been saying, when he caught sight of Regulus and trailed off. “Late, are you?”

Regulus didn’t seem affected by the older man’s cold stare. _Typical_ , Severus thought; it seemed a Black family trait, striding about like everything ought to happen on your time. He had never been certain of Regulus’s value, despite how well he’d performed the Dark magic they’d practised together that year. Alec Rosier’s assessment of him as too young had felt apt.

And yet, here he was.

Severus wasn’t the only one taken aback by his presence. Avery was frowning.

“We’re letting him join?” Avery said.

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Considering the brain cell value you have to offer, Avery, it’s no surprise Alec needed more help.”

Alec Rosier seemed put out by the suggestion that he needed anything. But he said, “With Mulciber inconveniently expelled, we could use an extra wand. Reg’s not half bad with curses.”

Regulus slumped into a chair, giving the lot of them moody stares. 

“ _Inconveniently?_ What, he wasn’t supposed to do something about Potter nosing into our business?” said Avery.

Severus wasn’t exactly given to defending Potter, but he found himself saying, “If Mulciber had picked a less offensive spell, we’d still have him. And no one would be suspicious about what we’re up to.”

"You only care because you wish you'd thought of it first, Snape," Avery scoffed. “And Dumbledore doesn’t suspect a damn thing.”

“ _Dumbledore_ isn’t the only one in the castle,” Alec Rosier shot back. “The Aurors changed their patrols, didn’t they?”

“If you’re done bickering,” Marius Rosier cut in, “I can say my piece.”

They all fell silent.

“Your tricks succeeded in distracting the investigators long enough for us to extract most of the objects in Dervish and Banges,” Marius continued. “A small number remain hidden, but given that they have realised what, exactly, they’re looking for, we can’t move them until activity dies down.”

“What if the Aurors find them?” said Selwyn.

“They are well-concealed enough that we needn’t worry. Lie low for the time being, and wait for my word. But have another distraction planned.” Marius scanned their faces, a dark humour in his expression. “It had better be explosive. Carry it off without a hitch, and you can…” He put a hand briefly, but pointedly, to his left forearm.

The others understood his meaning well enough. _The Mark_. Official entry into the Dark Lord’s service. 

“He didn’t even do anything,” Avery said, giving Regulus a glare. “Why does he get to skip straight to the — you know?”

“I don’t have to justify anything to you, Avery,” Marius said. “But if you must know, his blood runs strong. _Despite_ the black sheep.”

Regulus straightened in his seat, a hungry look upon his face. Severus saw, suddenly, an opportunity.

“Regulus can bear most of the risk for what we plan,” he suggested. “Then he’s done his part.”

Avery looked sceptical, but as Severus had expected, Regulus became almost defiantly determined.

“I’ll do it,” he promised.

The kind thing would be to wait until after Cecily had finished taking her test, so Mary resolved she’d wait if she needed to. But when she arrived at the registration desk, manned by a bored-looking Ministry official, the only person waiting was Chris Townes. 

“Oh, it’s you,” said Mary irritably.

“Cheers, Mac,” Chris said, smiling.

Well, she could try and extend the benefit of the doubt to Chris while she was here. 

“Listen, I think you ought to tell Cecily. That we snogged.”

Chris looked mildly surprised. “Why would I do that?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“It’s not that big a deal, Mac. I told you, she cheated first.” He shrugged, as if that was the end of that.

Mary wanted to scream. “Well, that might be enough for your underdeveloped conscience but it isn’t for mine. I feel bad, and I don’t want her carrying on with your sham of a relationship. Especially because her best mate’s in love with you!”

Oh. She hadn’t meant to say that last part.

Chris straightened, eyes wide. “What? What the fuck?”

In for a Knut… “Florence has fancied you forever, Chris, and you’re an idiot for not realising it,” Mary said with a touch of desperation. “It’s fucked up of Cecily to see you — date, cheat on, shag, whatever it is you two are doing — given that. And it was wrong of me to snog you since I knew about both of them.”

The post office door opened with a tinkle in the silence that followed, but Mary didn’t turn around. Chris was clearly having trouble processing this information; his mouth was moving, but no sound came out. He was looking at something over her shoulder.

Finally, he said, “What — is this a joke? _Flo?_ ”

“Why would I be making it up?” Mary said, exasperated. “Keep up, Townes. You have to tell Cecily, or I will.”

“No — hang on—”

“Tell me what?” Cecily Sprucklin said brightly from behind her.

Mary swallowed and swivelled around to face the other girl. There she was, two inches shorter than Mary and in a cute little sundress that underestimated the April weather. There she was, her pink-painted lips in their signature duck-like pout. The recent bane of Mary’s conscience, if not her existence. _Nice and quickly does it,_ Mary told herself.

“What’s going on, Chris?” Cecily said when Mary had been silent too long. 

Araminta Belby said, “Townes, Chris?” And Chris trooped off after her, leaving Mary to deal with this whole...situation on her own.

Cursing the day she’d snogged him — not just in February, but in fourth year — Mary gave Cecily a tight smile. 

“Look, I’m sorry. But Chris and I snogged two months ago, and I don’t think he ever told you. I didn’t think that was fair. So I’m telling you, I suppose.” She stopped for a breath, trying to gauge Cecily’s unreadable expression. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Cecily inhaled, nostrils flaring. “All right.”

“All — all right?” Mary was confused. Was that _it?_

“All right,” Cecily said again. 

“You’re not...angry?” It was too much to hope for, wasn’t it?

Cecily laughed, hyena-like. “Oh, of _course_ I’m angry. I’m just debating the best way to get back at you, and I’ve decided it’s not by shouting at you in the post office.”

Mary’s jaw dropped. The Ministry official, who’d been watching the proceedings with undisguised interest, looked put out.

“But — but I told you,” Mary said. “I did the right thing. That’s a far sight more than Chris did!”

“What happened to girls sticking together?” Cecily shot back.

Mary scoffed. “You didn’t seem to care about that when you fucked your best mate’s crush!”

Cecily went still. “Flo doesn’t fancy Chris,” she said, as if trying to convince herself.

“You can’t really be that stupid,” said Mary, forgetting that she had come to ask forgiveness.

“Did you _tell_ him?”

Mary threw her hands up in exasperation. “It slipped out! Look, you know what you need to know about your boyfriend, so I’m going now.”

She made for the door. Being good was so bloody overrated.

“You’ll be sorry,” Cecily sniped at her back. “Watch it, slut."

Worse things had been directed at Mary Macdonald. She rolled her eyes, pushed her way out of the post office, and put Cecily fucking Sprucklin out of her mind.

* * *

_iii. A Girl Always Knows_

Three out of four Marauders sat in their dorm, the map spread out in front of them. Peter was nervously checking said map, despite the fact that—

“Prongs is at _practice_ ,” Sirius said impatiently. “You don’t have to peer at it as though he’s right around the corner.”

“Well, I was only making sure,” Peter said resentfully, scooting away from the map. “What did you want to talk about, anyway? Without him?”

“We’re talking _about_ him. That’s why we’re doing it without him.”

“His presence has never stopped us from saying what we want,” Remus said wryly. 

Sirius shot him an exasperated look. “Stuff it, Moony, I have the floor. Look, it’s about _her_. It’s code bloody red.”

“Oh,” the other two said together.

“ _Code red?_ ” Remus said. “You’re certain?”

“What the hell happened? Why didn’t you tell us as soon as it did?” Peter added. “It was Easter, wasn’t it? The owls—”

“The owls,” Remus agreed, sighing. 

Sirius snapped his fingers in their faces. “Blimey, can I get a word in edgewise, mother hens? _Yes_ , code red.”

In the summer before their fifth year at Hogwarts, the Marauders were occupied by a solemn and noble quest. That is, they’d decided to become Animagi and help Remus through his painful monthly transformations. It had taken the better part of their fourth year to convince Remus not to do something stupid about this scheme — “Don’t you dare tell Minnie, I swear,” Sirius had said at once — and the process, they’d thought, was better accomplished over the holidays anyway.

“It’s a bit suspicious, doing it all at school,” James had reasoned. “And McGonagall’s done it herself, so if anyone would spot us—” He broke off, and all four of them spent the ensuing silence thinking about what their head of house would say if she caught them in the act.

So they spent most of July together, under the pretence of working on holiday homework. (“Tosh,” Euphemia Potter had murmured to her husband during the second week of this.) As such, the Animagus process involved plenty of waiting. It was so boring, keeping a Mandrake leaf in your mouth, the boys might almost have given up just to find something more interesting to do. 

On one such hot morning, the boys lay spread-eagled in the Potter manor’s enormous grounds, staring up at James’s Quidditch hoops. 

“Mum dragged me to Diagon Alley yesterday,” Peter said, his speech slurred by the leaf.

“Thrilling,” said Sirius, rolling his eyes.

Peter gave him a look of reproach. “Plenty of people we know were there. So my big idea could’ve worked anyway.”

The three others groaned in unison.

“How would we have managed _that_ at the same time we’re trying to be Animagi?” James said. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Lupin, it’s not like my mum has supernatural hearing.”

“She might, mate,” said Sirius, laughing.

“Who’d you see?” Remus said, hoping that if Peter were persuaded to finish the story he’d begun, the other two would stop talking about the highly illegal activities they were up to.

“The Gryffindor girls,” said Peter. “Not Sara, the other four. Mary and Dorcas, and Germaine, and Lily.”

Sirius made a contemplative _huh_ sort of noise. “Evans not with her greasy friend, eh?” He threw James a pointed look; James, equally pointedly, avoided looking back at him.

“No,” Peter said, oblivious to this exchange. Then, going a bit pink, he said, “Lily Evans got pretty all of a sudden, over the summer.”

This statement caused quite the explosive reaction. Remus sighed, saying, “ _Peter_ ,” because Lily Evans was his friend and he didn’t think she’d take kindly to being called _pretty, all of a sudden_. Sirius hooted, and at first Peter thought this was because of him.

“I mean, she got fit,” he said quickly. _Fit_ was what Sirius would’ve said, not _pretty_.

But this correction went unheard. Sirius was too busy laughing at James, who had half-swallowed his Mandrake leaf and was currently choking on it. Still chortling, Sirius pounded his friend on the back. James hacked out the leaf. In solidarity, Peter spat his out; Remus grimaced.

“We’ll start again tomorrow,” Peter said.

Sirius, shaking his head, merrily spat out his leaf as well. “Nice one, James.”

“Shut up,” said James, who was quite flushed from his coughing fit. “Don’t bloody start.”

It was too late. If there was anything Sirius Black had a talent for, it was _bloody starting._

“Start on what? You and Evans?”

“No,” James said, so feebly that none of his mates believed him. “I don’t fancy her.”

“Awfully defensive of you,” Sirius said cheerfully. 

James punched him in the shoulder. “I do _not_ fancy her.”

Meanwhile, Peter was horrified that the others might think he had some designs on his friend’s girl. (From that very moment on, Lily became James’s girl, in his mind.) 

“Oh, I didn’t — I mean, I don’t—” Peter stuttered.

“Relax, Peter, ickle Jamie won’t duel you to the death for her hand,” Sirius said, grinning. “Unless — will you? Since you do want her to bear your children?”

“If you don’t—”

Sirius dodged another fist. “Code red, boys, Potter’s got a hard-on in his _heart_ for Lily Evans.”

“Code red sounds too important,” Remus said mildly.

“Yeah, code red should be for emergencies,” said Peter, relieved to be out of the fire entirely.

“Sure. _Evans_ emergencies,” said Sirius with a smirk.

“Fuck you, Black,” James shot back.

From across the lawn, Euphemia Potter shouted, “James _Potter_ , did I hear you curse?”

“No, Mum!” James said immediately.

“Supernatural hearing,” Remus murmured, smiling. 

“But code red is for emergencies,” Peter said presently, frowning at Sirius.

“Jesus fucking — it’s an emergency. Evans doesn’t think Prongs fancied her. At all.”

He filled the other two on what James had told him — how Lily had misinterpreted his asking her out in front of everyone (which they all agreed had been bad form), how that theory still held true, how Germaine had probably reported back to her mates at once. Peter and Remus were sceptical.

“Don’t birds always know?” Peter said. “Didn’t one of _you_ tell me birds always know, when someone fancies them?”

“Apparently _this_ bird doesn’t,” Sirius said, who had definitely been the one to tell Peter that. “Which is a knock on her intelligence, if you ask me, but maybe other people can’t read Prongs the way we can.”

“Between the four of them, not one realised?” Remus said, shaking his head. “That just seems unlikely.”

“Walker and Macdonald suspect. But you know Evans — stubborn as a bat. If she’s made up her mind, she’s made up her mind. You do know what this means?”

“Yeah,” said Peter. “If she never thought he really properly fancied her, she’s never had the chance to really properly consider if she’d go out with him. Which means—”

“—James has a chance,” Remus finished. “James has a real chance, with her, still.”

There was the fact that things between the pair of them were always overly complicated, and they still complained about one another constantly, but the bottom line was that her rejection of him lost some of its weight if she had never taken the question seriously in the first place.

“Is that what he said too?” Peter said.

“No,” Sirius said grimly. “He said _this is a do-over_ , and he can now try and be friends with her without the baggage.”

Peter snorted. Remus sighed.

“He doesn’t really think that’s going to work? Not after how long he's spent pining after her?” Remus said. “You told him what a hopeless idea it was, I presume.”

“I did not,” Sirius said.

For the third time during that conversation, Remus and Peter wore matching expressions of surprise.

“Why not?” said Peter, because there was bound to be a reason. 

Sirius threw his hands up in frustration. “Well, I’m sick of him moping after her! She’s got a boyfriend, so it’s not as though she’s going to run into his arms right _now_ , and you have only to consider the fact that they haven’t properly spoken in the three weeks since Easter to know they’re not jonesing to get in bed at the moment.”

“So, you suggest we just...let him carry on like this?” Remus said, taken aback.

“He’s got Beasley. I told him to give that a go.”

“You’re saying you’d be fine with it if he married Marissa Beasley and we had Saturday night supper with her for the rest of our lives?” said Remus, one eyebrow raised.

Sirius scoffed. “Please, Marissa Beasley wouldn’t marry _him._ We needn’t worry about that. I’m just saying, if he and Evans are going to happen they’ll happen on their own time. And now isn’t that time. We’re running interference.”

Peter winced. “We’ve never run interference like this before…”

“We ran interference when Florence Quaille kept trying to jump _your_ bones,” Sirius pointed out, “and when Hetty Hardyng was after Prongs with a vengeance. _And_ when Hetty Hardyng was after _me_ with a vengeance.”

“But you know this is different,” said Remus.

Sirius made no reply at first. He did know this was different; they all did. They had never tried to prevent one of their own from going after a girl he really liked. And the Marauders hadn’t endured as much ranting about _that Evans_ as they had to not know James really liked her. This was serious business.

“Are you angry with her, for some reason?” Remus said haltingly. “At Lily?”

“No,” Sirius said, a touch too quickly. Then— “If my best mate can’t see he’s being yanked around, _I_ have to see it for him.”

“We can’t blame her for what she doesn’t know,” said Remus. “If she honestly doesn’t know he likes her — if she never knew—”

“A girl always knows,” said Sirius. “There’s no chance — a girl _always_ knows.”

“I can ask her,” Remus offered, though he had no clue how he would even begin to broach the subject.

He had honestly thought his own friendship with Lily would have been strained by the incident at the Lake, but she had told him their very first patrol back that she did not consider him to be at fault for his friends’ errors.

Well, he _was_ to blame, because he hadn’t done anything about it. But that was neither here nor there, and Remus hadn’t argued the point; he was grateful, after all, that she had always been forgiving and kind to him. How would he juggle this, now, with that?

“No, you can’t ask her,” Peter said. “If Prongs is right, and Germaine did go tell them what _he_ told her, they’ll think something’s up if you go right back bringing it up again. Mary’ll cotton on quick as anything, and then _she’ll_ tell Lily, and—”

“That’s it for their budding friendship too,” Remus said, groaning.

“Then we’ll ask someone else,” Sirius said, the gears in his mind already turning. 

“Who?”

“Someone close but not too close. Someone perfectly positioned to _hear_ what Lily thinks, but someone who wouldn’t necessarily share everything with her.” Sirius glanced at the map, then leapt to his feet. “Someone like—”

Sara Shafiq closed her Divination textbook and gave the three Marauders before her an amused, if weary, smile. It was the smile she reserved for them specially. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she said. “Or, more accurately, what can I do for you?”

Sara was the closest thing at Hogwarts to a real-life Emma Woodhouse. That was how Lily had described her to her face, anyway, and immediately regretted it. Lily herself loved _Emma_ and its protagonist, for all her missteps and heedless pride, but she could certainly see how others might consider that comparison an insult.

In any case it hadn’t mattered, because Sara hadn’t a clue who Emma Woodhouse was.

But Lily’s characterisation was as close as it could be to spot-on. Sara was absolutely comfortable with her lot in life, which, as it turned out, was a bountiful lot indeed. She was well-off, came from an old wizarding family, and was a very likeable gossip.

That is, she often spread information, but rarely was it the malicious sort of news. She was genuinely friendly in a way that Amelia Bones or even Mary Macdonald was not. Though she took a great deal of interest in romance — reading it by the truckload, and listening attentively to her mates’ amorous tales — she was not so interested in seeking it. Sara dreamed of being the _Witch Weekly_ astrology correspondent, not of being some grubby Hogwarts boy’s arm candy.

That isn’t to say she had no silly crushes or hopes. Sadly, Sara reflected, she wasn’t above such things.

For instance, she held the dubious distinction of being James Potter’s first girlfriend, a state that had lasted for exactly one evening when they were twelve, and were forced to interact at some function or other. She had also been his first kiss, two years later. A disastrous experiment, they’d both agreed. In any case, she wanted to stay well clear of the tangled mess that were Hogwarts romantic relationships, especially given how many of her friends fancied each other’s mates or boyfriends or what have you.

Sara’s decision was about to be vindicated, in a big way.

“What can I do for you?” she said, glancing at each of the boys in turn.

Sirius shook his head. “Ah, come on, Shafiq, can’t we just come by for a chat?”

“ _Is_ that what you’re here for?”

“No,” Remus said, rolling his eyes at his friend, “sorry. It’s a bit time sensitive.” They had better wind up this conversation well before James returned to the common room — or worse, before Lily or her mates came around.

“Fire away,” Sara replied.

“You can’t tell anyone we were asking,” Peter began.

Sara laughed. “Why the secrecy?”

“Because this is a secret, important matter,” Sirius said. “Look, we’ll tell you something in exchange.”

“We will?” said Remus.

“Excuse me, what do you take me for?” Sara said, still giggling.

“King’s Cross,” said Sirius solemnly. “As in, all valuable information passes through you, but some trains, er, break down and stay there, and we hope this train breaks down. Sorry, that simile fell apart.”

“Oh, would you get on with it? Professor Lawrence gave us so much Divination homework — I think her prophecy coming true has put her in an awful mood, if you’d believe it—” the boys tensed, until Sara said “—although, Madam Hooch is _fine_ anyway.”

“Okay, we’re getting on with it.” Sirius cast _Muffliato_ over their corner of the common room. “We need to know, has Prongs been a...topic of discussion with your roommates of late?”

Sara cocked her head thoughtfully. “Well, no more than usual… No, in fact, I’d say _less_ than usual. There’s very little complaining about him — from Lily, that is.”

“Oh, good, they’re getting along,” Remus said, although he supposed part of the reason Lily had little to complain about was the fact that she’d seen so little of James recently.

Sara frowned. “I think Lily’s too preoccupied to worry about James’s crush. Really, of all the things to ask me about at this time—”

The boys exchanged glances. 

Before her gentle scolding could go on, Sirius said, “Yeah, yeah, we know. What do you mean, his crush, though?”

“Well, he fancies her. Fancied?” Sara scrunched up her face. “You know the details better than I do.”

“We’re not interested in _our_ details,” Peter said. “We’re interested in Lily’s.”

Some of Sara’s confusion cleared. “Why should you ask what she thinks of him now? It’s not as though she’s free to date him.” She frowned once more. “Did something happen?”

“Sara, sweetheart, fewer questions and more answers,” Sirius said smoothly.

“She doesn’t like to talk about — that possibility. That he fancies her, I mean. That’s what I remember from last year, at least. Mary’s certain about it, and she used to tease Lily about it plenty, but then he asked her out and she was so honestly upset that the girls dropped it.”

“Are _you_ certain about it?” Remus said.

Sara gave him a look. “I have two eyes, Remus. Of course he fancies her. Bless him, he’s about as subtle as an Erumpent.”

“But Lily doesn’t think he does?” said Peter.

Sara shrugged. “I told you, she doesn’t like talking about it. I think it — embarrasses her, a little, and she’d rather just pretend it’s all a big joke to James. He didn’t do himself any favours,” she added, apologetically.

“We know,” the Marauders chorused.

“So if she does suspect, it’s buried deep down,” Sara continued. “But — very, very, _very_ deep down. But I’m not her best mate. You ought to ask Mary.”

“Ha, no thank you,” Sirius said. “She’ll only tell Lily we’ve been asking, and drag us all into a pile of shit. But _you_ won’t tell, will you, Sara?”

Sara smiled. “What did you say you’d tell me in exchange for my silence?”

“Play the innocent, that’s how you get us,” Sirius said ruefully. 

“Come on, come on, my homework awaits.”

Sirius wished he could consult the map in that moment, and find something shiny but ultimately useless to tell Sara. He tried, “Willie Llewellyn and Brenda Purkiss have split.”

Sara shook her head. “ _Fourth_ year gossip? What do you take me for, Black?”

“Someone who drove a softer bargain than this,” he muttered. “All right, Filch gave Francine Belfry a detention because he caught her with weed.”

Sara _hmm_ ed, but merely said, “You’re holding out.”

Sirius sighed. “I’ve traded you two bits of information.”

“I gave you a whole conversation.”

“ _Fine._ Cecily Sprucklin is cheating on Chris Townes.”

“Well, shocker,” Sara said; she did not much care for Cecily, on account of how she’d mistreated poor Florence.

“With Steve Fawcett,” Sirius finished.

Sara’s eyes went wide. “But Steve’s seeing—”

“Amelia Bones, yep.”

Sara huffed an angry laugh. “How could she! How could _he!_ Amelia deserves to know.”

“I’ll say,” Sirius said. “And, in exchange, Evans hears…?”

“Nothing,” said Sara, jumping to her feet and marching for the portrait hole, her Divination homework entirely forgotten.

Remus, Peter, and Sirius watched her go.

“You might’ve started something, Padfoot,” Peter said.

“They started it their own damn selves,” Sirius said dismissively. 

In point of fact, his own best friend had started it...sort of. But you already know that story.

“So, we’re running interference,” Remus said, sighing. “I don’t feel good about this.”

“I didn’t expect you to,” Sirius retorted. 

“Well, I _don’t_. She’s my friend too—”

“But you’re not doing anything that harms her,” Peter pointed out. “You’re only—”

“Conspiring to keep a friend of hers away from her?” interrupted Remus. “Hiding the truth from her?”

“You keep Prongs’s secrets before hers,” said Sirius. 

Remus pressed his lips together. “She's lost her _mother_ , and he’s been a big help to her—”

“ _You_ can be a big help to her,” Sirius said, beginning to lose his patience. “You’re her friend too, aren't you?”

Remus wanted to say _that's different_ , but he would lose the argument the moment he did. Because there _was_ something different about James and Lily, and that was exactly why Sirius did not think they could be friends. 

“It’s not like she’ll ever know. Either we help him get over her, or we resign ourselves to our best friend—” he stressed those words “—being heartbroken.”

Peter and Remus were silent for a moment in the wake of this heavy word. It wasn’t like Sirius to throw around _heartbreak_ , of all things. 

“You’re so sure she’ll hurt him,” said Peter quietly. 

“Have you seen her with that boyfriend of hers? She has no idea what she wants, and _I’m_ not getting Prongs mixed up in this.”

Sirius was seventeen, and thought _love_ and _heartbreak_ and what have you were a load of bollocks. But what sort of girl, when asked if she loved her boyfriend, said _none of your business?_

The sort of girl who yanked blokes around, obviously. And normally Sirius might have thought, _fair play to her_ _,_ but this was his friend. His best friend. The last good thing he had — or maybe the only good thing he'd ever had.

Remus, meanwhile, could see that Sirius's mind had been made up. He had rarely, if ever, put a stop to his friends’ more questionable choices. He found himself at a turning point now — and though he knew that James ought to come first, that James had risked his life for Remus on multiple occasions, he did not know if interfering counted as taking James’s side in this. 

Unprompted, Sirius added, " _You_ weren't there over Easter. He spent day after day owling her, and the look on his _face_ when she'd owl him back — reading the Jane Austen she lent him, not just once, might I add, but _multiple times—_ " He broke off and shook his head.

Privately Remus thought that Sirius was less selfless in his actions than he pretended to be. But he did not vocalise this thought, knowing that it would turn Sirius's annoyance to proper anger. No, his friends had decided, and all he could do was try to control the fallout.

“I’m only doing positive interference,” Remus said. “As in, I will spend time with her to keep Prongs away from her. But I’m not going to — distract him so they don’t speak.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Fucking _fine._ I can’t stop you from getting all bleeding heart, I suppose. We’re in agreement.”

“Sort of,” Remus corrected, frowning. 

“Sod off with the technicalities. We’re running interference.” And, as an afterthought, Sirius said, "We ought to try Peter's big idea this summer."

Peter's eyes lit up at this prospect. Remus simply sighed.

* * *

_iii. Yes_

At some point during practice, someone had come to sit in the stands. This was not an entirely unusual occurrence — once the weather turned clumps of Gryffindors often came to watch the team fly, and James tended to be a touch more lax with his housemates. Unless he had something to hammer into the team, he did not chase away their audience. But it had been a long stretch, and it was a clear spring afternoon, and the rest of the watchers had eventually trooped off towards the Lake.

Except for the blonde head in the stands. The familiar blonde head in the stands, James corrected himself.

"Want me to make you look good, skipper?" Evan called, tossing him the Quaffle. They were cooling off, hovering in a wide circle as James debriefed.

James rolled his eyes, catching it without missing a beat. "I do fine on my own, thanks."

"Aw, Potter, but Quidditch is—" Evan looked pointedly at the others.

Together, they chorused, "A _team sport."_

"It brings me such joy to know you children listen to me."

"Practice is over," said Isobel. "You can go talk to your girlfriend."

Bert whistled. Quentin and Germaine _ooh_ ed. Percy, to his credit, only looked embarrassed.

"The lot of you can do cool-down daggers," James said. "Except Percy, he's all right."

Percy looked more embarrassed. Everyone else burst into overlapping complaints.

"—sprints _aren't_ cool-down exercises—"

"—come _on,_ we did them to start—"

"The faster you do them, the sooner you get them over with," James said over them all, grinning. "Perce? Good run. Don't be shy about coming out to take away the angle. Now, if you'll all excuse me, I have to talk to my girlfriend."

That halted their moaning and groaning. James flew towards the stands, leaving them to their quiet snickering. 

He had not asked Marissa yet, in fact, but it had been an easy, thoughtless response to Isobel. The word: _girlfriend._ James found he liked the sound of it, and he liked the idea of it applying to her. It was an empty space he had been holding in reserve for the same girl too long. And so as James approached Marissa, took in the way the sun turned her hair golden, the ready smile she wore, he thought, _why not?_

"Were you watching me?" he said, throwing himself into the seat beside her. 

"Only a little," Marissa said, turning slightly towards him. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late."

She shoved him gently, shaking her head. "You're lucky you're fit."

"I knew you only wanted me for my body."

"I've been caught."

"Next Hogsmeade weekend," James said, casually enough that it _almost_ didn't sound like a change of topic, "are you up for a date?"

Her smile widened. "Multiple dates? Careful, Potter. What will people think?"

"Hopefully exactly what we want them to."

"Which is?" Marissa arched one brow.

"A proper go of it?"

"You could say the world _girlfriend_ perfectly well when you were out there." She pointed at the pitch. James was momentarily speechless. Marissa laughed. "Your voice carries when the stands are empty."

"Maybe I meant for you to hear it," James said, in what he thought was a remarkable recovery.

"Right," she said, and she kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this *was* short and sweet but then sirius decided to be a low-level prick LMAO. i'm sorry...not sorry.
> 
> any guesses as to when james and lily are actually going to figure out what's up? any guesses as to how cecily is going to take her revenge?
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	24. Mates, Dates, and Big Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Sirius, deciding Lily is bad news, leads Remus and Peter on a keep-James-and-Lily-apart quest, breaking all our hearts. Lily thinks she and James had a drunken snog (they didn't) and angsts about it, since she is still dating Dex. James makes his relationship with Head Girl Marissa hashtag official on Sirius's advice. Mary decides she should come clean about kissing Chris Townes to his girlfriend Cecily, but accidentally tells both parties that Florence, Cecily's best friend, fancies Chris. Cecily vows vengeance. Amelia Bones calls Germaine a freak, for which Mary punches her, but Mary doesn't tell her friends the exact nature of the insult. Germaine kisses Amelia's best friend, Emmeline. 
> 
> NOW: Friendships, fucks, and fuck-ups come to a head as the Hogwarts student body reckons with the fallout of Cecily and Florence's secret experiment. Germaine hears from someone unexpected. Sirius is a master of misdirection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, leave us a comment or kudo, luvs. Thank you so, so much for all the love and support you've shown this fic! Check my tumblr (@thequibblah) for extra content. 
> 
> I have not final-proofread this chapter yet, so excuse the mistakes, but it's been an incredibly hectic week. And of course one in which JKR has been a fucking demonic transphobe yet again...so, don't buy that new game (she gets royalties), don't buy her new books, just stop giving her money thanks! Read diverse, better fantasy instead.

_i. Of Friendship_

By October of 1971, two girls at Hogwarts had decided to be best friends. 

No, not Mary Macdonald and Dorcas Walker, two Gryffindors who were paired together in Herbology class consistently. Doe told Mary she _wanted_ to be good at Herbology, on account of the teacher seeming quite sweet. But her mother kept her away from the plants at home, because she had a tendency to kill them. Mary had very little experience with magical plants, but she had grown up on a farm, and was not thrown by odd pus or foul-smelling mulch. 

They made a good team. Mary, perfectly no-nonsense despite her shimmery lip gloss, talked Doe out of her panics when their Puffapods exploded. Doe made sure that their notes were painstakingly neat, and that Sprout did not hear Mary’s colourful swearing. It took three weeks for them to start going everywhere together.

No, not Amelia Bones and Emmeline Vance, who had met on the train. Emmeline’s parents worked at the _Prophet_ , and she recognised the name Bones. Amelia’s mother was in the Minister’s Office, one of the highest-ranking people in the Ministry. Though Emmeline did not network as an eleven-year-old, Amelia did. She’d swanned into Emmeline’s compartment followed by five other girls and said, “Can we sit? Everywhere else is full.” Emmeline couldn’t exactly say _no_. 

Somehow, those other girls did not capture Amelia’s attention the way Emmeline — quiet, but blunt, clever, and absolutely intolerant of bullshit — did. She seemed so much older than eleven. For her part, Emmeline liked that Amelia was driven and whip-smart, even in first year, and though she was a gossip she had decided that Emmeline _could not_ be gossiped about, at risk of permanent social exclusion. It was nice to have a friend who stuck up for you, unconditionally. 

Even though the girls were not in the same house, they studied together and sat together in class whenever possible. You could be forgiven for thinking Amelia was a Ravenclaw. (You’d never think Emmeline was a Hufflepuff.)

But no. The pair of best friends in question were, of course, Cecily Sprucklin and Florence Quaille.

This was before Peter Pettigrew had oh-so-cleverly nicknamed them after birds; in fact, Cecily’s lips only really got pouty in their fourth year. Florence was terribly intimidated by Amelia Bones, her roommate. Cecily thought that Amelia was a bit full of herself, and ought to loosen up. The other Hufflepuff girls in their year seemed content to follow Amelia around. 

Though Cecily was not the daughter of a high-ranking Ministry official, she _was_ an heiress. Her mother was the daughter of Basil Horton, one of the Comet Trading Company’s founders. Even at eleven, she was a bit vapid and more interested in _Witch Weekly_ than sitting through a Transfiguration lesson, but Cecily did have one characteristic that is surprisingly rare in the wealthy. She liked sharing. 

She liked being the girl who magnanimously _gave_ because she had more than her classmates. She was open-handed with her possessions in a manner unlike most young children. She lent Florence her sweets, her expensive shampoo, her spare quills, and more — and Florence, an only child and a homesick mummy’s girl, was glad to have someone to share things with. In exchange for material possessions, Florence gave Cecily her unwavering loyalty.

No, really. They swore a blood oath.

The blood oath did not stop Cecily from gossiping, just a touch, about her best mate over the next few years. It was only to Amelia Bones, she reasoned, and Amelia was their roommate. She’d have heard somehow, when Florence kissed a boy at a wedding over the summer holidays only for the boy to turn out her third cousin. Or when Florence had tripped over her own shoelaces in the corridor and taken out Bertram Aubrey. Or when Florence had had a horrifically wet snog with her study date. 

You see, Cecily Sprucklin was magnanimous. She liked sharing. But she liked sharing when she _chose_ the terms and conditions of that sharing. Even giving could confer power.

The aforementioned horrifically wet snog was, in fact, the direct cause of the situation Cecily Sprucklin and Florence Quaille found themselves in, in May of 1977. 

In September, 1976 — the first month of their sixth year — Florence had had a _study date_ with a Gryffindor seventh year. The snogging was an utter disaster. Cecily had laughed a bit when Florence related the whole sordid tale to her — which Florence didn’t take much offence to, since Cecily’s first reaction to anything was to laugh — but had then said, “We ought to find a way to keep track of the bad snoggers.”

“Like a rating system?” Florence said, brightening. She had spent the evening after the wet snogging fiasco crying to Cecily, but this kept her tears well at bay. 

“Exactly,” Cecily said. “When we snog someone, we’ll share how it went and write it down. Then we know not to run into the poor snoggers.”

In theory, a fine enough idea. Except that somewhere in between unwavering loyalty and open-handed generosity, Cecily and Florence had become competitors. They often bragged about how they shared so much. They had their first kisses on the very same day, because when Florence had told Cecily about it she resolved not to be left behind. They’d lost their virginity to the same boy, because Florence couldn’t abide Cecily’s pointed whispers about _what it felt like to be a woman_. And, well, if one or the other of them was hurt by this pattern, they did not tell each other.

So the snogging rating system became another little race. First to get Doc Dearborn into a broom cupboard (a failed Florence mission). First to snog a Marauder (a success for Cecily, having happily stumbled across a bored Sirius one day). And then… 

“I think I’ll ask Chris to Hogsmeade after the Christmas holidays,” Cecily had remarked to Florence. “The first one’s Valentine’s Day, I heard.”

“W-What?” 

Cecily gazed at her with impatience. “Didn’t you hear me, Flo? I said I want to ask—”

“But _why?”_ Florence set down her Potions homework and pouted at her friend.

“Well, we’ve got to get him for the list, haven’t we?”

Florence scanned the library tables around them. No sixth years were in sight, and few Hufflepuffs were nearby. “ _I_ could get him for the list.”

Cecily blinked, as though this hadn’t occurred to her at all. “Do you want to?” She said this with a vague contempt, obviously leading Florence to a certain answer. And that answer was—

“No,” Florence said, looking away.

“It’s settled, then. You can snog someone good at Evan’s party, yeah?”

And it _was_ settled, even though Chris turned Cecily down for Valentine’s Day — “ask me later, Cece, I don’t even know what I’m doing _tomorrow_ ” — and even though Florence was in a sulk for the next week. Cecily kissed James Potter at Evan’s party (even though James was one of Florence’s names for the list, and was therefore the subject of an argument in the library), but when he’d told her to just go snog Chris already, she thought that was rather sound advice. Anyway, she didn’t have to _date_ Chris. Not for the list.

But Cecily then discovered something that Mary Macdonald already knew. Chris Townes was fun. Unlike Mary, Cecily wasn’t terribly put-off by his stupid jock act, and he was perfectly happy to attach himself to a similarly fun-loving girl who did not ask much of him. What did it matter who snogged who? After all, Cecily didn’t seem to care.

Chris Townes, however, didn’t know what Florence Quaille did. Cecily liked sharing. But only on her terms.

It was May, so there was that, at least. The Hufflepuff common room was always cosy, but it was especially bearable in warm weather. Another girl might have cut her losses. Not Cecily Sprucklin. She pounded on the sixth year girls’ dorm with an open hand, all but stomping one foot.

“Amelia, you have to let me in at some point,” she said.

“No, I don’t think I do!” Amelia said through the door. “Go sleep in your boyfriend’s bed. Or better yet, _my_ boyfriend’s!”

Cecily threw her head back and huffed in frustration. 

“I didn’t sleep with him. I don’t know who told you what, but they’re lying.”

The door flew open at that, revealing a red-cheeked, glaring Amelia Bones. “Sara doesn’t _lie_ about things like this. You, on the other hand, are more than capable.”

Too late Cecily was realising the price to pay after years of being polite at best and cool at worst to Amelia. It was enough to get her invited to Amelia’s little book clubs, enough to coexist in a dorm with her, but not enough that she could count on her loyalty to supersede rumours. 

“Well, then, someone lied to Sara!” Cecily said. She had an idea as to who. A rush of anger filled her at the thought of Mary _bloody_ Macdonald. “Look, Amelia, it was only a snog, and it was a mistake—”

“It wasn’t.” This voice was quiet, tremulous; Florence was brushing her long golden hair in the dorm, but she had paused to listen to the argument. (To be fair, you would have to try _not_ to listen. Amelia and Cecily weren’t exactly quiet.) 

“What? Flo, don’t be silly—” Cecily began, genuine confusion creasing her brow.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Florence said, turning to face Amelia and speaking as though Cecily weren’t there at all. “She planned it and everything. She wanted to ask him to Hogsmeade, but when she found out he was going with you she was furious. So she said she’d get her revenge and break you up.” 

Having said this, Florence went back to brushing her hair, as calmly and coolly as if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb. Amelia went from red to puce. 

Cecily gaped at her best friend. None of that was true. “She’s— No, that’s not what happened! I didn’t want to ask Steve to Hogsmeade—” 

But she had wanted to ask Chris. She _had_ asked Chris, in fact. 

Florence was carefully avoiding her gaze. For the first time since running into Mary at Hogsmeade, Cecily wondered if the other girl had been telling the truth. If Florence really did fancy Chris, but had never told her. 

She felt a slight twinge of guilt — but, well, she couldn’t act on information she didn’t _have_ , could she? How was _she_ supposed to know Chris was off-limits?

“Well,” Amelia said, perfectly cool, “I think that’s that. Find someone else to cry to, Cecily.”

Before she could slam the door shut again, Cecily braced a hand against it.

“Wait! Let me just — let me get my things.”

Amelia was wearing a satisfied smile, as if she’d served justice and was willing to show her a little kindness. “Be my guest,” she said with false sweetness.

Cecily darted past her and bundled her nightclothes into her arms. She hadn’t yet thought about where she’d be sleeping, but that didn’t matter. The real reason she’d wanted to get into the dorm at all was to pull out the diary wedged under her mattress. Tucking it into her book bag, she swept out with her head held high. _Rest_ came second to revenge. 

“Flings aren’t really _it_ , for me, I don’t think,” Doe said, doodling a flower into the margins of her notes. “I mean— Oh, it’s really strange having this conversation with you right here.” 

Remus looked up from his essay, smiling a lopsided smile. “I don’t mind not being _it_ for you, Dorcas.”

Doe groaned and put her face in her hands. Germaine snickered at her friend’s discomfort..

“In any case,” Remus continued, “I’ve had a lot of years of counselling…” He suddenly coughed. “Well, talking with my idiot mates about girls. Suffice to say it tends to be a lot stupider than anything you’ve said so far.”

Doe laughed, rubbing her temples. “That’s a relief, knowing I’ve cleared a low bar. What I mean is, I just don’t know how some people do it.”

Germaine snorted. “You can just _say_ Mary. It’s fine.”

“Oh, stop it.”

“So, you’re going to go after this friend who you fancy?” Remus said. He was now back to writing the essay, but he spoke perfectly casually. Dorcas and Germaine looked at him, surprised.

“Do you want us to stop talking about it?” Doe said, uncertain.

Remus looked up once more, startled. “Er, no? I don’t...don’t really mind either way?”

“We’re not bothering you? You’re doing homework,” Doe said.

“Stuff it, Doe. Clearly he likes to gossip too,” said Germaine cheerfully. Remus laughed quietly, but did not argue the point. 

Doe looked around the common room, but it was noisy enough that afternoon that it was safe to talk without being overheard. 

“What I didn’t tell you,” she said to Remus, “is that he’s cross with me. And not in the casual, something stupid happened way. In the _he needs time to ever forgive me_ way.”

Germaine, who knew this already, made a sympathetic grimace. Remus looked taken aback. 

“I can’t imagine what you’d do to have someone that angry with you,” he said slowly. 

Doe sighed. “Well, let’s not get into it. The point is, we haven’t spoken properly since, and he’s sitting with _Amelia Bones_ of all people in Ancient Runes — oh, shit—”

Understanding had appeared on Remus’s face. 

“Michael Meadowes,” he said in an undertone. 

“Oh, please don’t tell. I’m so embarrassed—”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, except for the way you folded like a pack of Exploding Snap cards,” Germaine said. 

“I won’t,” Remus assured her. 

“You won’t even tell your mates?” Doe said. 

“I really won’t.”

“Really, _really?”_ Doe pressed. “Because, I’ll be honest, sometimes people tell me things and say, ‘don’t tell anyone,’ and I tell the girls anyway, but it doesn’t go beyond that. They don’t count. They’re like an extension of me.”

Remus was smiling, but he said, more gently this time, “I won’t, Dorcas.”

“Won’t what?” 

Dorcas hissed, sitting ramrod-straight. _Never,_ ever _have these conversations in the common room._ At least it couldn’t have been Michael himself, a fact in which she took some solace.

It was, in fact, James, who’d drifted over to their table, a book in hand. 

“Mind your business,” Germaine told him.

He hit her on the head with the book.

“Don’t concuss me, you dolt!”

James scoffed. “As if I’d hit you hard enough to concuss you. Don’t be _dramatic._ C’mon, what won’t Moony do?” He glanced between the three of them.

“I can’t tell you,” Remus said, carrying on with his essay.

Doe slumped in her chair, relieved. 

James shrugged. “I’ll get it out of him eventually.”

“No, you won’t,” said Remus.

“Yeah, I will.”

“Did you come over to be a pain?” Germaine cut in, exasperated.

James grinned at her, pleased to have earned the reaction he was looking for. “I was wondering if any of you knew where Evans was.”

“Library,” Doe replied, glad to have a change of subject.

His face fell. “I can’t go in there. Pince is being awful — Peter and I have three-week bans, can you believe it?”

“You _did_ enchant the books in the Care of Magical Creatures section to fly about and crash into one another,” Remus said, failing at smothering his smile. 

“Irrelevant,” said James.

Germaine laughed. “What do you care about being banned from the library for?”

“Are you returning Lily’s book?” Dorcas was peering at the familiar clothbound volume he held.

“Trying to, but Pince—”

Sirius materialised out of nowhere, plucking the book from James’s hands and squinting at it. “Evans’s, yeah? I can give it to her.”

All heads swivelled to face him, except for Dorcas. James seemed to be formulating some kind of response. She watched him instead. 

“Well, it’s not urgent,” he began. “And Pince hates you, as a rule.”

“Not as much as she hates _you_ right this moment,” Germaine pointed out.

Sirius nodded. “That’s true. I mean, if you want to give it to her personally—” He shrugged, held the book back out to his friend. 

Dorcas blinked at the slightest stress he put on the word _personally_ , wanting to exchange glances with someone. But Germaine was, as always, terribly oblivious. Remus was not looking at her. 

It was so frustrating when James and Sirius communicated near-telepathically; something of that sort was happening right then, because James relaxed, shoved his hands into his pockets, and stepped away from the book as if it’d personally offended him. 

“Go ahead,” James said.

“Well, you can just leave it with us, and we’ll give it to her?” Germaine was looking between the boys, frowning.

Doe, relieved to have the backup she’d been looking for, nodded enthusiastically. “Sure, why not?”

“What if she needs it now?” Sirius smiled wolfishly at the rest of them, apparently unwilling to relinquish custody of the book. “No, I should be off on my solemn duty.”

The other four watched as he disappeared through the portrait hole.

“Is anyone going to share what that was about?” Germaine said finally. Doe rather agreed.

“It’s just Padfoot,” Remus said, looking as though he was holding back a big sigh. 

James made a noise that could have signalled annoyance or agreement, hurrying back up the boys’ staircase. 

“I can’t believe we gossiped in front of you and you’re giving us nothing.” Germaine gave Remus a pointed look.

He grimaced. “It’s nothing worth hearing about, honestly.”

“I do not believe you, Remus Lupin.”

Doe studied Remus in silence for a moment. “Let it go, Germaine,” she said at last. “He doesn’t keep secrets for bad reasons, anyway.”

A shadow of a smile crossed his expression, and he bent his head over his essay once more. Unsettling quiet had come over all three of them. Doe felt, distinctly, that she was missing something. 

* * *

_ii. Of Fuck-Ups_

“Ginge, ice cream boy,” Sirius announced, having arrived at the table in the library Lily and Dex Fortescue were studying at. Far from the Care of Magical Creatures section, he noted; Pince was still in the process of tidying up that mishap. Sirius dearly wished he could’ve seen it.

“Black,” Fortescue said, eyeing him with no small amount of wariness.

Sirius ignored him and held the book out to Lily. “Yours, I believe.”

Her brow furrowed as she took it. “Thanks?”

“Prongs has been bowled over with Quidditch lately, so he hadn’t the time to finish it.” Sirius was pleased by how casually the lie jumped to mind. He knew, after all, that Lily and James did not like talking about awkward or uncomfortable things — especially when those things concerned them, not other people. Likely they would not cross-reference this story.

He was also very good at apologising insincerely, a skill which he put to use just then. “He says sorry.” The sardonic slant to his words made Lily’s frown deepen. 

“Oh. Right,” said Lily, putting the book away. “That’s...a shame.”

It was for the best, Sirius reminded himself. He didn’t exactly _enjoy_ hurting her, and he did have the grace to regret that this was all happening after the death of her mother. But his priority was his best mate. She had her own to lean on. Ones who didn’t have complicated feelings for her, and weren’t eyeballs-deep in denial about them. 

Yes, it _was_ for the best. Sirius remembered their night out quite well, with the analytical eye of a best friend. How, as they’d become progressively drunker, they’d leaned closer to each other. How they’d gone off on their own, how embarrassed Lily had looked when the rest of them had come out. _I have a boyfriend_ , she’d said. It all added up to something, only he wasn’t sure what. He knew it was bad, though.

James hadn’t told, which was unusual — the bloke could never keep a secret, at least not from Sirius. But that only made it worse, didn’t it? If James could keep this a secret from him? For _her?_ No chance. Snape, of all people, had come between the boys last year. Sirius would not Lily Evans be the next.

“Yeah, well,” Sirius said. “Life’s a bitch, and all that.”

“Don’t be a prick,” Fortescue warned.

“Please, Dex.” Lily was still looking at him. “I didn’t think he’d make you play delivery boy.” 

The hurt in her voice had given way to a hint of steel. That made Sirius feel better. 

“He’s busy, like I said.”

“ _Fine._ Bully for him.” She was clenching her jaw, high spots of colour appearing in her cheeks. Like an afterthought, she said, “Avery and his lot are by the doors. If they didn’t notice you on your way in, they might on your way out…”

Sirius stiffened. She didn’t get to do that. She didn’t get to be _nice_ to him, not now.

“What’s your point?” he said shortly.

“Just that it would serve you to avoid them,” Lily replied coolly.

“And why would it?”

Fortescue was watching this in the way you couldn’t drag your eyes away from an awful Quidditch accident.

“Because of your— Because you don’t want a detention.”

Even worse, this, how she would not say the word _probation_ in front of Fortescue. _Fuck you,_ thought Sirius, immediately and furiously.

“You know,” he said, “I think I ought to say hello to them. It’s been a while, and I’d hate for them to think I’ve forgotten our many years of friendship.”

An abrupt scrape of chair legs against stone, and Lily was standing. “I’m walking you out of the library.”

“Don’t fucking try me, Evans,” Sirius said, sneering. “I don’t need your babysitting. I don’t need your _concern_.”

“This isn’t about _you,_ though you seem to think everything is. This is about my preference for peace and quiet in the library, and general harmony amongst our year. And Remus and Peter and James would be cut-up if you got expelled.” 

She delivered this in that measured, businesslike way of hers, then pointed towards the exit. “Start walking. I _am_ a Prefect.”

Sirius did not move for a moment; all three of them were frozen in some tableau.

“You’re really not gonna do anything?” Sirius said to Fortescue.

He turned back to his work, the tops of his ears going faintly red. “Lily has you in hand. And I don’t want to fight.”

Not _I don’t want to fight in the library._ Not _I don’t want to fight on your behalf._ Just _I don’t want to fight._ Sirius grimaced at Lily, momentarily forgetting he had decided not to like her.

“Walk,” she repeated.

He did, reluctantly. She followed, leaving her boyfriend still seated at the table.

“I didn’t know being a Prefect means you know what’s best for everyone,” Sirius said, almost conversationally.

“I have a conscience and a baseline of good sense,” Lily shot back, “both of which you have as well but choose to disregard. If you want to be an arse to me for no good reason, don’t think I’ll take it lying down.” 

Sirius had a unique talent for pushing further than he ought to.

“You did with Snivelly, for five years.”

Her mouth fell into a round little O. “I don’t know what your bloody problem is—”

But she did, didn’t she? A girl always knew.

“—when I’m trying to help _you_ —”

“Ah, I see, I’m supposed to be grateful for the intercession of Saint Evans—” He put his hands together in supplication. 

“Fuck you,” Lily said in a furious whisper. “Fuck you, I don’t know why any of them put up with you—”

Sirius laughed. “Oh, don’t you? You don’t know why _Prongs_ puts up with me? Going to advise him to drop me, exalted one?”

She straightened, one eyebrow raised. “Why? Does that scare you? Are you jealous, Black?”

Any qualms Sirius had had about this interaction vanished at once. A small, satisfied smile was playing at her lips, further infuriating him. 

He carefully rearranged his expression into one of cold detachment. “Of you? Not a chance, Evans.”

Though their sparring had largely been in an undertone — her, because of some ridiculous respect for the sanctity of the library, him, because he did not want Pince to throw them out before he got in as many shots as he could — they had attracted a small audience. The students in the tables around them were watching with wide eyes. And then one of them called out—

“Lover’s quarrel?” said Thalia Greengrass, her dark eyes flicking between them. “You really _have_ fallen far, Black.”

“Must be the poverty,” Avery said gleefully. “You’ve got to take what you can get, when you’ve lost your honour, respect, money, social standing—”

“Not that he had much of most of those to begin with,” Thalia finished. “Poor _Potter_ , don’t you think, Severus?”

Snape only scowled, bending more resolutely over his book. Sirius noticed the fourth member of their party: Regulus, his eyes ringed with shadows, more pale than usual. He too was silent, but he was not pretending to ignore the proceedings, as Snape was. 

Sirius reached for his wand, ignoring Lily’s warning look.

“Not if they share,” Avery snickered.

Cold fingers clamped around his wand arm; Sirius startled, so taken aback that Lily was able to haul him several feet towards the library doors before he began resisting.

“Let go of me,” he snarled.

Lily gave a short, sharp laugh. “Absolutely not. Pince will be back at her desk any minute, ready to dole out detentions, and I do _not_ plan on waiting for her.”

They were in the corridor at last. Sirius tugged free, glaring at her. He’d slagged her off, and yet she hadn’t left him to his own devices. It was enough to make him sick.

“You’ve done your job, giving me my book,” she said. “I’ve done my job, making sure you don’t start a brawl in the library. Call it even.”

“I don’t _need—_ ” Sirius began again.

“Whatever, Sirius.” She sounded more tired than angry, as if the fight had drained out of her. “If you’ve decided you dislike me now, do us both a favour and steer clear of me. Morning, Professor Thorpe.” 

_What?_ Sirius wanted to say, on multiple counts, but Lily had turned on her heel and walked back into the library. He swivelled around to find that Thorpe was indeed in the corridor some distance behind him, her eyes narrowed. He wondered how much she’d overheard.

“I see you’re staying out of trouble again,” Thorpe said, no trace of censure in her tone.

Sirius mumbled a sullen “Yeah.”

“Busy studying on the weekend? Writing my essay, perhaps?”

“Right.”

It was not believable in the slightest. 

Thorpe waved at the library doors. “I need reference books for my fourth years. It’s too much for one person to carry. If you’re not doing homework—”

“I didn’t say that,” Sirius said quickly.

“If you’re not doing homework,” Thorpe continued, as if he hadn’t interrupted, “you can help.”

Lily walked back to her table not angry, as she'd left it, but weary. An involuntary sigh left her mouth as she dropped into her chair; Dex looked up from his book.

"All good?" he asked.

For once, she faced him not with guilt but with irritation. _No,_ nothing was good, and he didn't know the half of it. But she smoothed it away before it could show.

"Fine. No duelling."

Dex sat back, nodding. "What's with Black? Merlin."

She understood this was a rhetorical question, and knew she ought to move on. But she was already tired, already annoyed, and Lily could not stop herself from snapping. "He doesn't let that crowd walk all over him, blood purist arseholes that they are." Sirius was the last person she wanted to defend at present — but she was still raring for a fight, it seemed, and would take whatever was on offer.

He blinked. "I meant, why was he being such a tosser to _you?"_

Of course that was what he'd meant. 

"You didn't take much exception when he was actually doing it."

Dex was frowning now, less confused and more defensive. "What, did you want me to sock him? As if you need protecting from him!"

"No!" she said, exasperated. "Aren't you also invested in stopping a duel from occurring in the library?"

"A duel _wasn't_ going to happen, come on. Black wasn't actually going to—"

" _I_ was the one walking him out, so you wouldn't know what he was going to do!"

"I don't understand what you want from me, Lily." Dex was visibly fighting to keep his voice low.

He did not, because this issue was not _the_ issue. _The_ issue was that she had been right, over Easter, to think that her conscience couldn't bear lying to him. She hated it, and she was beginning to hate it just as much as the idea of telling him the truth. Which one would win out? 

She wanted to ask her mother's advice. She could not, and every time she came up against that realisation she felt as if she'd been punched in the gut. She wanted some kind of home, some recalibration of her heart's compass, but she would not find it.

"Never mind it," Lily said finally. "Sorry I snapped. Let's just go back to working."

There seemed to be no good way to wriggle out of this. Sirius slouched after Professor Thorpe back into the library. As they passed the Slytherins, he saluted in their direction. Cowed by the appearance of a professor, none of them responded.

The Defence Against the Dark Arts section of the library was near-full, mostly with fifth years anxiously cramming. Thorpe looked at them approvingly. Probably she had set them some test. Sirius followed her to a shelf, where she began pulling out book after book at an alarming rate and stacking them in his hands. _Common Curses and How to Repel Them_ , smack. _An Advanced Perspective on Creature Attacks_ , smack. _Hobbes’s Compendium of Counterjinxes_ , smack.

“You’re rather better than our last Defence professor,” Sirius said.

 _Theoretical Approaches to Countercurses_ , smack.

“Thanks,” Thorpe said, a touch sardonically.

“Did you really break curses in — Italy and Japan and India, or whatever?”

She gave him an exasperated look. “Brazil, Poland, Korea.” Smack; another book.

“I thought you were more of a practical person than all this theory stuff. Professor,” he tacked on hastily.

“Recklessness and imbalance gets you killed, in my line of work,” Thorpe replied.

 _Your line of work as Hogwarts professor?_ Sirius wanted to ask, but he didn’t think Thorpe would take his cheek the way McGonagall did. In any case, she was trying to make a point, and it wasn’t a very subtle one. 

She said, “How did your Careers Advice session go, last year?” 

He was taken aback by this sudden change in tack. “Professor McGonagall could tell you that.”

“Self-describe, Black, if you please.”

Sirius shrugged to hide his discomfort. He hadn’t wanted to be hounded by a professor any more than he did by Lily Evans. 

Voice thick with drama, he said, “You don’t need N.E.W.T.s to be a layabout, which is my ultimate goal. But my _dear_ mum always wanted me to finish all seven years.”

Thorpe remained impassive. “Your practical spellwork is good, even if your test-taking leaves something to be desired.”

“What do I need that for? Professor.”

“The test-taking or the practical spellwork?” she shot back.

“Both.”

“You remind me of—”

Sirius scoffed. Teachers really _were_ all the same. “Yourself? With all due respect, Professor, that’s rubbish. I doubt you were anything like me.”

Her expression tightened; for a moment Sirius thought he’d finally gone too far.

“No, I wasn’t,” Thorpe said, clipped. “I wasn’t careless, reckless, insubordinate, and all too willing to waste away my potential.”

Sirius blinked. “Wow. Tell me what you really think,” he muttered.

“You remind me of my brother.”

He wondered where this interesting tidbit fit, into the messy puzzle that was the professor and her wanker father. “Is he a rich layabout?”

“He’s dead.” Her expression didn’t even change as she said it.

His brows rose. Summoning a glib comment now seemed too cruel even for him. A long pause, and then— “Sorry to hear that, professor.”

The tight line of her mouth softened. “Thank you.” Then, businesslike, she forged on. “You don’t have Ancient Runes, of course, so Curse Breaking is out of the question. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement, however—”

Sirius made a face; he would almost rather have discussed the dead Thorpe than return to his career prospects. “A _Ministry_ job? No one in their right mind would put me in the Auror Office, nor should they.”

“I said nothing of the Auror Office.” She set down _Magic for Protection, Volume Six_ on top of the towering stack in his arms. Were they facing each other, Sirius would not have been able to see her over it. “Have you met a Hit Wizard, Black?”

“Oh. N— Hang on, I have.” The memory of Marlene’s boisterous father at the Potters’ Christmas party returned to him. But he couldn’t quite imagine himself in that man’s position, drinking and regaling boys with the stories of his glory days… Easier to picture himself as Thorpe’s dead brother. An empty space where someone had once been.

“It’s less investigation, more action.” Her imperious gaze slid to him. “Consider it,” she said, like a command.

“Thanks?” Sirius said, nonplussed. “Is that all, professor? Because my arms will give way soon.”

She almost smiled at that. “That’ll do. Come along, it’s a busy day and I need these in my office.” 

He followed her out of the library, past the Slytherins’ wary gazes once more. This time, Sirius did not look at them as he went.

On Tuesday morning, Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom had been cleared of benches and desks, a sight which the sixth years had grown quite used to now. Thorpe was drilling them on their practical magic more than ever — the extra practice from Duelling Club, she informed them all, ought to speed up their progress. Exams were round the corner, as all their teachers were fond of reminding them.

“And if you patch up the gaps before summer, we won’t be playing catch-up next year,” Thorpe called as the students obediently paired up. “And a good thing too, because — and I know you don’t need reminding — next year is—”

“N.E.W.T. year,” Germaine muttered under her breath, in Thorpe’s exact intonation. Next to her, Mary unsuccessfully tried to stifle a laugh. Thorpe looked at them sharply. 

They weren’t the only Gryffindors speaking among themselves; Germaine could hear a quiet argument going on between the Marauders, some distance away.

“—Prongs, I’m serious, last time we did this Walker knocked me clean off my feet—” Peter was complaining.

“All right, _fine_ , I’ll partner with you. Jesus, Wormtail.”

“Me and you?” Germaine said, returning her focus to Mary.

“Till the end,” said Mary grimly. “Cursed to loathe this exercise.”

“Maybe Thorpe’s being honest, and we’ll have less of this to do next year if we get it out of the way.”

“Fat chance.”

After some fifteen minutes of spellcasting, Thorpe clapped her hands. “Shuffle!”

Germaine waded through the crowd, looking for a familiar face. Sara was as yet unpartnered; enthused, she made for the other Gryffindor. But Amelia Bones got there first, and when Germaine looked around for another partner her eyes fell upon Emmeline Vance.

 _Shit,_ Germaine thought.

Technically speaking, she was over it. It had been two months since her ill-advised encounter with Emmeline, during which time Germaine had taken full advantage of the size and scale of Hogwarts Castle. James had taken to flying with her, which she thought was very nice. He even kept the barking of instructions to a minimum. 

Really, it was incredible how easy it was to avoid someone when you set your mind to it — even though they had classes together, Germaine hadn’t had to speak to her, or, indeed, face her, until this very moment.

But here they were. Emmeline lifted her hand in a halfhearted wave. Germaine sort of smiled and sort of shrugged back. _Ha ha, I suppose we’re stuck together_ , it was meant to signify. She was over it, and so it would be fine. It was always fine. Feelings happened and then they went away. Soon enough they would be laughing about it together.

Yeah, right. Maybe thirty-seven years from now.

“King, Vance, stop dawdling!” Thorpe barked as she swept past.

Germaine approached Emmeline, stopping at the duel-appropriate distance. Look at all that nice space between them! 

Walking between the pairs, Thorpe said, “To my right, Shield Charm. To my left, Impediment Jinx. Nonverbal, if you please—” She strode out of the way. “Begin!”

Nonverbal was good. This way Germaine did not have to speak, and therefore she did not have to think up what to say. She quickly realised, however, that this was too optimistic. Because in between forcefully thinking _Impedimenta_ , she had plenty of time — and few distractions — so she could notice every line of Emmeline’s face. 

Her sharp nose, her pointed chin, the small, pursed bow of her lips. Germaine had never before had the experience of looking at someone else’s mouth and thinking, _I’ve kissed that mouth._ It was curious indeed — a warm sort of flush that began in her chest and rose to her face, and _oh, no, she_ wasn’t _over it._

Panicked, she shouted, “ _Impedimenta!”_ which did absolutely nothing. Emmeline’s Shield Charm had held.

 _Sweet, sweet irony,_ Germaine thought, dismayed.

“I said nonverbal, King,” Thorpe said.

Beside Germaine, Amelia Bones sniffed. Emmeline gave her an apologetic look. Germaine smothered her irritation and went back to willing her jinx would work.

When class finally came to an end, Germaine let her shoulders slump in relief. She’d managed to knock Emmeline back just twice, but she’d take her successes where she could get them. Across the classroom, her friends were clumping together, preparing to head off to Gryffindor Tower for their free period.

But before Germaine could join them, a voice behind her said, “King. A word?”

It was not Emmeline. It was Amelia Bones; her best friend was nowhere to be seen. 

“I suppose,” Germaine said slowly. “What is it?”

Amelia gestured to the corridor, which only made Germaine’s alarm spike. But she followed the other witch outside anyway, deciding she could come back to collect her books. The hall was full of students; Amelia pitched her voice so low that Germaine had to strain to her.

“About — what happened at Potter’s birthday,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

 _Huh?_ “You’re sorry — about Mary punching you?” Germaine’s brain was doing all sorts of mental gymnastics to comprehend this.

“Yes,” Amelia said haltingly. “I am.”

“You’re sorry, directed at _me?”_

“Yes.”

“I think you should be talking to her.” Germaine did not know the details, of course — Mary had been uncharacteristically cagey — but she thought the situation probably warranted mutual apology. _Punching_ was several steps too far, even for Mary’s level of drama.

“I’m apologising to _you,”_ Amelia said. “And...well, could you tell her I’m sorry about Steve?”

Germaine shook her head, amazed. “I’m not an owl, Amelia. You can tell her yourself.”

“She won’t talk to me, and it’s not as though I’ve given her good reason to.” Amelia was utterly earnest. “But I accused her of something and found out—”

“Oh, _good_ morning.” Mary’s voice was especially acerbic; Germaine looked over her shoulder to see her three friends approaching, her own bag in Lily’s hands. “What are you two discussing?”

Amelia went pink. “Just — that—”

“Amelia was apologising for what happened at the party,” Germaine said.

Amelia let out a sigh, then squared her shoulders and looked at Mary. “For what I said to you. _All_ of it.”

Mary crossed her arms over her chest. “Oh? Seen the error of your ways, have you?”

“You don’t have to rub it in.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I’m a bitch and a slag, but at least I’m right.”

“You’re not a slag,” Amelia admitted begrudgingly.

Germaine looked at Doe and Lily, who all appeared just as incredulous as she felt. Was this...the end of a two-year rivalry?

Mary sniffed. “I decide what I am and what I’m not, Bones.” Then, turning to her friends, she said, “See you in the common room.” And she melted into the stream of students.

“Er. Right,” Germaine said. “Thanks for the apology, then.” Amelia merely nodded and went the other way.

“What’s next?” Doe said as they walked towards Gryffindor Tower. “Snow in May? The Marauders and the Slytherins shaking hands?”

“What _were_ you talking about?” Lily wanted to know.

Germaine shrugged. “I was there, and I don’t even fully understand myself. But I think more happened between them that night than Mary’s letting on.”

Doe smiled. “Nothing’s quite so complicated as the language of rivalry.”

“What’re you looking at me for?” said Lily.

“Nothing. Anyway, Amelia Bones reminds me of summer plans.” Doe grimaced.

“How’s that?” Germaine said.

“Because she and Slughorn talk about nothing else at Slug Club. _How_ did you stomach these meetings, Lily?” Dorcas had continued to impress at Duelling Club; word of her spellwork had got back to the Potions professor, apparently, and she had been attending his dinners since returning from Easter holidays.

Lily grinned. “It’s about earning enough goodwill to be able to avoid them.”

“The rest of us are done for. The Slughorn market’s long been cornered,” said Germaine. “Did Madam Shafiq’s secretary say when she’d be getting back to you both?”

“Late May, last I heard. Lily?” 

“The same. I haven’t really...followed up. I applied before Mum…” Lily trailed off.

Germaine grimaced. “I can write Abigail and ask if she knows any other Wizengamot secretaries, see if we can get some insider information.” 

“Oh, Abigail’s probably too busy—”

“She’s always busy,” Germaine dismissed. 

It had been some weeks since the Hogsmeade case had had a new break. Whatever bespelled magical objects had been hidden in Dervish and Banges, they had been successfully smuggled out, it was looking like. Every day Barty Crouch appeared on the _Prophet_ ’s front page, very harried indeed. 

Not to mention that their parents were living separately now — Louisa King had gone to visit with her mother, but Abigail had informed Germaine that the holiday was more permanent than she made it seem.

“But she likes you both, and the worst thing she’ll do is tell me no.”

“Well, all right,” Lily relented. “Thanks, Germaine.”

Germaine squeezed her friend’s elbow. “Anytime. Hey, did you put your name forward for the Mungo’s program too?”

A shadow crossed Lily’s expression. “I...I haven’t. I don’t think I can be in a hospital. Maybe a different version of me could become a Healer, but, well...”

The admission sat heavily between them. Germaine took Lily’s hand.

“I always thought you’d be a Healer — but we all can turn out to be different things than we expect, I reckon.” 

Lily squeezed her fingers back, and all three of them walked in silence, hand in hand.

By the time they were on the fifth floor, headed up the staircase towards the Fat Lady’s corridor, the stone-sized lump in Lily’s throat had lessened to the slightest burr. She’d released her friends’ hands, if only because she worried she’d been gripping them far too tightly.

Did it ever get easy? Would it ever make sense?

From below them on the stairs, a voice called, “King, we’re flying after this, aren’t we?”

All three girls turned. James stood at the bottom of the staircase, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tie askew. 

“Yeah, see you at the pitch,” Germaine said.

Lily avoided looking at him at first, and then wondered why she should do such a thing at all. James lingered there, apparently considering saying something else.

Finally, he said, “I’ll walk with you.” He bounded up the stairs, raking a hand through his hair, and fell in step beside Germaine. 

The castle’s staircases and halls were wide enough to allow eight people to walk abreast, and of course the girls were used to travelling everywhere in a pack of four. But it was their habit to drift into pairs; Germaine always dawdled, and Mary and Lily loped ahead. The same thing happened now. Doe slowed to ask Germaine something, and Lily found herself walking with James, a few paces ahead.

“Had a good morning?” said Lily politely.

James looked at her as if she were touched in the head. “I’ve had the exact same morning as you, so, yeah.”

She cocked her chin, thinking. “Did you also stumble out of bed fifteen minutes late, break a tooth off your hairbrush with your frantic detangling, and spend a good ten minutes trying to find it so you could reattach it?”

He pointed at his hair. “You know me, I never skip out on the detangling.”

She considered his mess of hair, and laughed. “I hope your hairbrush survived.”

“I was a bit smarter. I just summoned the bit that broke off.”

Lily snapped her fingers. “Now, why didn’t I consider that?”

“Beats me, Evans.”

There. Conversation came easy. It was good to be reminded of it, given that she continued to see very little of him. And not even by her design, not anymore. He was often with his girlfriend. She was often with her boyfriend. Whenever they _were_ very nearly alone together, something or the other would happen — a commotion in the common room that drew him away, his friends appearing out of thin air.

Lily would not have been bothered by it — would not have thought much of it, really. But there was that sullen look that came over Sirius whenever he saw her these days. She didn’t think she’d ever declined so rapidly in someone’s favour. 

It meant he knew. It had to. And Lily had never known James and Sirius to go behind one another’s backs, so the scheme had to have been sanctioned by him. Why he needed his mates to distract him when he could simply have ignored her himself, she couldn’t say. 

Awkwardness did funny things to people.

Except, there was no awkwardness between them _now._ It boggled the mind, honestly.

“Knut for your thoughts,” James said. She realised she had been walking in silence, probably ignoring him.

“Aren’t my thoughts worth far more than a Knut?” Lily said, smiling.

“I’ll see about a loan at Gringotts,” he said, deadpan.

“ _You’d_ need a loan?”

“It’s not becoming to speak of one’s wealth, Evans.”

The portrait flew open before they could say the password; Peter half-stumbled out.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” he said to James, breathless. “The big idea—”

“What big idea?” Lily said curiously as they climbed into the common room.

“Nothing,” said Peter.

“She’s going to find out anyway,” James said, rolling his eyes. “It’s just—”

“Not until we iron out all the kinks!” Peter nearly shouted, seizing James and dragging him off to a corner. 

Lily waved at Remus and did not look at Sirius. She could already summon up a mental image of the dark expression he’d be wearing. Whatever scheme they were planning, she found herself oddly content to wait and see. She couldn’t have said where this peace had come from. She _would_ , however, badger Remus about the hows, when it was done… The map would factor into it, no doubt, and—

 _The map._ Did they use it to figure out when she and James were alone together? Peter _had_ picked an opportune moment to spring from the portrait hole… 

What a great deal of effort to go to on her behalf. But this too would pass, wouldn’t it? Soon they would forget, just as her own awkwardness with Dex was slowly smoothing over. And things would be normal again in Gryffindor Tower. Only Lily’s conscience would be the wiser — or more the fool.

* * *

_iii. Of Fucks_

“They’re recalling Hartwick, you know,” Doe said as the girls came to the end of their suppers. “That’s what the WWN evening news hour said, at least.”

“So the murders — they’re giving up?” Germaine said, incredulous. “Just like that?”

Doe shrugged, though concern was written in every line of her face. “I’ve no idea. But if the lead investigator’s going… Maybe their leads have dried up.”

“At least there’s no more Patrick Podmore on the Hogwarts Express this way,” Mary said, shuddering.

For her part, Lily was paying little attention. Some sort of commotion was taking place in the Entrance Hall, visible through the Great Hall’s open doors. It was only midway through supper — had that many students chosen to leave early?

“What’s happening out there?”

“Poetry reading,” supplied a fourth year beside her.

“What?” Mary said, incredulous.

“No, really.” The fourth year held out a flyer.

Lily took it, frowning. _Come one, come all, to a poetry recital in the Entrance Hall…_ “It _is_ today. And it _is_ —” she checked her watch “—right now.”

Mary scoffed. “As if that many people at Hogwarts are cultured enough to give a shit about poetry.”

Lily pushed away her empty plate. “I’m finished anyway. Might as well go see if I have to keep the peace.”

Germaine set down her dessert spoon. “Right behind you.”

They left Doe and Mary still sitting there, and went to the Entrance Hall. The small crowd there was clumped by the grand staircase leading into the castle, next to which a frowning Amelia Bones was reading from what looked like a diary.

“— _Paul Ramsey can’t kiss for shit_ ,” she said haltingly.

“What the _fuck_ ,” said someone in the crowd, presumably Paul Ramsey.

“Wow,” said Germaine, “poetry’s really changed since Abigail tried to get me into it.”

“All right, let’s end this — everyone, go find something better to do.” Marissa Beasley came striding out of the Great Hall, followed closely by James, hands in his pockets, and the other Marauders a few steps behind. 

Annie Markham plucked the book from Amelia’s hands. “Hang on, Mar…” She gave her friend a pained look. “You’ll want to see this.”

“I don’t want to see whatever gossip compendium’s going around,” Marissa replied, though a flush had risen in her cheeks. 

Annie tried to hand the book through the crowd to Marissa, but in the process it somehow escaped her grip. It juggled its way through a grabbing mob — “Can everyone please take a step back and _stop_ fighting,” Lily called, to no avail — until someone began to read.

“ _Caradoc Dearborn’s a swell snog—_ ”

“Stop it!” Annie Markham shouted.

“ _—and he’s even better when he’s seeing someone else, though he and his mate won’t last long, not when he’s had me—_ ”

Lily slashed at the jostling group with her wand and the whole lot of them were blown away from one another. Bertram Aubrey wound up sliding face-first into the back wall, which she did regret. Mostly.

“Honestly!” she said, exasperated. She strode up to the fourth year who’d been reading, gave him a quelling look, and snatched the book away. She snapped it shut without looking at it. 

More students had filtered into the Entrance Hall to see what was going on. Lily could see Doe and Mary by the doors, frowning and trying to catch her attention. _What’s happening?_ Doe mouthed. Lily shook her head to signify, no, everything was fine—

She raised her voice and said, “Everyone can leave. There’s nothing to see here.”

“Who wrote it?” At some point Marissa had wound up next to her. The Head Girl’s expression was troubled; she looked like she was working hard to be composed.

Lily’s stomach bottomed out. _He and his mate won’t last long_ — Marissa thought the entry was about _her._ “I really don’t think—” she began.

“Lily. Give me the book.”

Reluctantly Lily handed it over.

Marissa flipped to the first page. In neat script were the words _If found, please return to Mary Macdonald._

“Oh!” Lily said, stricken. “No, Marissa, there’s some been misunderstanding.” 

“She doesn’t _keep_ a diary,” added Germaine.

“Who doesn’t keep a diary?” James said, taking the book from Marissa’s hands. She didn’t resist. He swore quietly as he read what they just had.

Marissa didn’t seem to hear a word. She was staring at Mary across the Entrance Hall, the hurt in her gaze morphing into anger.

“Marissa, listen to me,” tried Lily again.

The murmuring crowd was shifting; Doe and Mary had waded through to them. Lily wanted to frantically ward them off.

“I believe this is yours,” Marissa said, holding the book out to a confused Mary. The entire room seemed to hold its breath.

Mary glanced down at the journal. “It isn’t.”

“Isn’t it?” This, cold and furious, came from Amelia Bones. 

Lily, Germaine, and Doe exchanged glances of horror.

“This is a mix-up,” said Lily again, trying to reach for the book, which James still had. He held it out to her, but Amelia intercepted it with the finesse of a Quidditch player. “Amelia, for Merlin’s sake—”

Amelia was skimming through the pages, each filled with careful cursive. “ _Chris Townes,_ ” she read, “ _I snogged back in fourth year, when Amelia Bones was seeing him. Some boys get better with time, even if they still date idiot Hufflepuffs._ ”

A wave of shock — or delight — rippled through the crowd. Mary laughed; Lily cringed. Of _course_ that was how she’d react. 

“You’re joking, right? You think I’d be so stupid as to write down my every thought about every guy I’ve hooked up with in a _book?”_

She gestured for Amelia to give her the diary; when the other witch did not, Mary yanked it away from her. “Let’s see…” She stopped flipping, something unreadable flickering across her expression. But it was gone in a flash, and when she spoke her voice was even. 

“ _Kieran O’Malley, too wet._ Jesus, that’s all it says.” Mary snorted a laugh. “Well, I’ve never snogged Kieran O’Malley, and it’s a pity he’s not still at Hogwarts, or he’d confirm it for you. He wouldn’t want my Mudblood mouth anywhere near him.”

“There, it’s all been cleared up,” Lily said quickly, not missing how Mary herself had flinched when she’d said the slur. “Can we all go back to our common rooms? This isn’t a show _._ ” This she directed at their audience, which didn’t so much as twitch.

“So this isn’t your handwriting?” Amelia demanded.

Mary turned the book this way and that. “It’s a great forgery, I’ll admit.”

“Right. Because we’re all on the Mary Macdonald show, and someone would go to all that trouble for you,” snapped Amelia. 

“She _said_ it isn’t hers,” Germaine said. “Leave off, all right?”

“I apologised to you — I thought I’d had you wrong,” Amelia said. “But you don’t change, do you, Macdonald?”

“I don’t know, you seem to know better than I do!” Mary shot back.

“This isn’t a public trial,” said Doe, her voice gentle but firm. She took Mary by the arm. “We’re leaving.”

“Just tell them it’s full of rubbish and they’re all wasting their time,” Lily added.

“I won’t say it’s _all_ a pack of lies,” said Mary after a long moment. “But I never had these thoughts. I never wrote it down! Just because I did _some_ of these things — that’s between me and the people I did them with.”

Some of those things? _Some boys get better with time, even if they still date vapid Hufflepuffs._ Lily grimaced, thinking, _oh, Mary._

Marissa’s lower lip was trembling. “Do you _enjoy_ messing with people’s happiness?”

When Mary met her gaze, she looked properly contrite. “Whatever happened there,” she said quietly, “I really had no idea. I know you don’t really have cause to believe me, but I didn’t — I _don’t_ mean to hurt you.”

“Your intentions don’t count for much.” Marissa turned away, striding up the staircase.

James glanced at her retreating back, then turned back to the girls. “Want me to get rid of it?”

“Not at all.” Mary’s scorn had crystallised into hot rage. Lily could see her fingers trembling as she pressed them against the diary’s hardback cover. “We’ve got to keep it for its real owner, right? Is Cecily Sprucklin here?” She scanned the crowd behind her. “Speak up, Cecily!”

“I think we ought to go,” said Dorcas again, more insistently. 

“I don’t have to go,” Mary retorted. “I’m not just going to lie back and say _thank you_ while I’m made out to be some kind of villain. I am more honest than _any_ of you—” this directed at Amelia “—about my mistakes.”

“So these are mistakes? Just little slip-ups?” Amelia sneered. “Repeat occurrences are a problem, not an unfortunate coincidence.”

Mary was shaking her head. Anger brought out her Scottish accent, giving her words more of a melodic roll. “Get off your high horse, you judgmental bitch, or I _swear_ I will clock you in the face again.”

Germaine’s jaw dropped. Dorcas said “ _all_ right” and began bodily dragging Mary towards the staircase. Lily found herself numb — whether from shock or anger, she could not have said. In absolute silence the four girls walked to Gryffindor Tower.

“Back so soon?” said the Fat Lady, peering at them.

What a sight they must have made, Lily thought. Dorcas, so tense a muscle was twitching in her jaw; Germaine, pale and nervous; Mary, redder than she’d ever been before and crying silent tears. And how did she, Lily, look?

“ _Apis_ ,” she told the portrait.

The Fat Lady sniffed. “Well, all right, don’t get snippy.”

The next ten minutes were a flurry of activity; the girls moved as if on a mission, ensconcing themselves in their dormitory, wordlessly handing Mary glasses of water, her softest flannel nightclothes. 

“Oh — my bloody books are still in the Great Hall,” Mary said suddenly, her voice scratchy from crying.

“I’ll get them,” Germaine said, springing to her feet. 

“Not alone,” said Doe. “It’s a mob out there.”

“You go,” Lily heard herself say. “I’ll keep Mary company.”

After a beat of hesitation, Doe nodded and left with Germaine. Silence seemed to swell in their wake. 

“Shall I put a record on?” Lily said.

Mary had stopped crying — or at least there were no fresh tears sliding down her cheeks. She made no move to wipe away the dampness already there. Lily resisted the urge to cross the room and do it for her.

“Let’s just talk.” Mary only ever sounded this way with her friends, defeated, small, when the worst had happened. With everyone else she always had her bravado. It broke Lily’s heart to see her like this again. “I know you want to, anyway.”

She started. “I want to what?”

“You want to ask me what’s true and what isn’t.” Mary met her gaze. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Lily let out a breath. “It’s really not my place to judge.”

“No. It isn’t.”

“Chris Townes?” she guessed. “That’s why you think Cecily did it.” 

Mary nodded slowly. “And...I told them both that Florence fancied him.”

“Oh, Mare. When did all this happen?”

Mary swiped at her cheeks finally. “February. The day Michael was… That’s why we found him together.”

“But you never said a word,” said Lily helplessly. “Not even to us.”

“I didn’t,” Mary agreed. 

“But — why not?”

Once more Mary looked up at her. “I don’t know, Lily. When you were in my situation, you rang me immediately because you knew I wouldn’t judge you. I don’t expect thanks for that, or a pat on the back, or anything. That’s who I _am._ That’s the sort of friend I am. But who do I get to treat as that friend?”

Lily opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Maybe it was unfair, but it wasn’t entirely _wrong,_ was it? 

“I’m sorry,” she said at last. “I want to be that friend for you.”

Mary nodded, then patted the space on her bed beside her. Lily sat down, scooting closer. Her friend still had the open journal in her hands; Mary showed it to her.

“ _Cassius Mulciber,_ ” Lily read in a whisper, and that was all it took for her sympathy to become full-on fury. “Are you fucking serious?” She turned to Mary. “Do you really think it was Cecily? I’ll go over to the Hufflepuff common room and give her detention right now. This is _awful!_ It’s — cruel, and small-minded, and downright—”

“It’s okay, Lily,” Mary said, in one exhale.

“It’s not, and you know it isn’t.”

“Well, no, it’s not. But what am I to do about it?”

Lily sighed. “Tell me how I can make it easier.”

Mary shifted onto her side so she was facing Lily. “I’m going to go to sleep. Can you chuck that book off a tower?”

Lily was too taken aback to hold in her laugh. “Really? You don’t want to figure out how to tie it to Cecily?”

“I don’t want revenge, if that’s what you’re asking. Oh, don’t look so surprised!”

Her eyebrows had indeed risen. “Can you blame me?”

“I’m tired, Lily.” It sounded like a confession. “I’m sick of — chasing and being chased, and trying to convince people I’m not what they think I am. Except they’ve already decided. I really didn’t know about Marissa and Doc — I _still_ don’t know if it’s true, or if Cecily was just guessing. And I don’t like caring what strangers think of me.”

Lily snaked an arm around her and squeezed. “You don’t have to care. It’s what makes you brave, Mare, that you do what you want no matter who looks at you sideways. But when you want a break, well… You’re allowed a break. You don’t always have to act.”

A smile flickered across Mary’s face. “Point taken. Now, get throwing. I don’t want you to break curfew for me.”

Lily laughed again, properly this time. She slid out of Mary’s bed, journal in hand. “Last chance to reconsider.”

Mary shook her head. “I won’t.” And Lily knew she wouldn’t. She’d always envied her friend’s decisiveness. 

“Okay.” She dimmed the lights. “Are you certain you’ll be all right alone?”

“Doe and Germaine should be back before long.”

“If you’re sure—”

“I’m _sure._ And, Lily?”

She paused with one hand on the doorknob. “Yeah?”

Mary’s voice was now a sleepy mumble; Lily marvelled at how quickly her friends could fall asleep. “You should speak to James. He’s the me, and it’s not fun being the me.”

“I will,” Lily said softly. She slipped out of the room and shut the door gently behind her. 

Her conversation with Mary had felt like midnight at a sleepover; she was surprised, then, to see that it was not yet past curfew, and the common room was abuzz with activity. Some of the whispers faded as she entered, the now-infamous book plainly tucked under her arm. Lily didn’t try to hide it, nor did she shrink from curious gazes. Mary, she knew, would have done the same for her.

She didn’t make any sort of threats, but she scanned the room sternly just once. The message, she thought, was well understood. _Cross my friend, and you cross me._

Lily did not want to try the Owlery nor the top of Gryffindor Tower. It felt most fitting to go to the Astronomy Tower, to toss the book off the highest possible point. She took the stairs two at a time; her legs were burning by the time she pushed her way to the top of the tower. She moved to the ledge, which overlooked the grounds, and stared over the edge for one long, dizzying moment. 

She’d just rocked back on her heels, blinking away the vertigo, when she heard the door open behind her. Lily whirled around — then relaxed. There was such a thing as happy coincidence, then.

“Is Marissa all right?” she asked.

James made his way towards her, resting his elbows on the parapet. “She’s not exactly thrilled about what happened. She’s embarrassed, mostly. But upset too.”

“It really wasn’t Mary.”

James shrugged.

“I’m not lying.” Lily didn’t know why it was so important that he believe her. “It— Look, it’s got an entry for _Mulciber,_ of all people.”

His guarded expression gave way to disbelief. “Someone wrote that she snogged him?”

She was relieved that she wouldn’t have to show him to convince him. “Well, I didn’t read the whole thing. I was furious.”

“Un- _fucking_ -believable.” James ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight with anger.

“I _know._ ”

“Are you here to see how far you can chuck it?”

“Oh. Yes, actually. But then I thought someone might pick it up on their way to the pitch or the greenhouses, and I don’t think we want that.”

James nodded. “You know, if they wanted to be smart about it, they’d have made copies and distributed them.”

She shivered at the thought. “Maybe they have, and we don’t know yet.”

“I don’t think they have, though.”

Lily wanted to trust that. “Hopefully Cecily didn’t think that far ahead.” 

It was almost worse, she thought, to be cruel and not clever. You didn’t have the excuse of having been carried away by your cleverness — you had simply followed the instinct to hurt to its end, without consideration… But did it matter, in the end, when cruelty hurt its targets all the same? 

“You ought to burn it,” he suggested. “So no one can find it and read it.”

“I’m fairly certain they frown upon small bonfires on the Astronomy Tower,” said Lily drily.

“Small’s allowed. It’s medium to large that they take issue with.” James held out a hand for the book. She gave it to him, and he set it on the stone floor. “Witches first.”

She rolled her eyes and drew her wand. “Is that it? No dramatic speech?”

“Fire is quite dramatic, Evans.”

Well, he had a point. 

“ _Incendio,_ ” she murmured, and a jet of fire licked greedily at the book’s cover. 

It was quicker than she’d expected. Once the flames had caught, they made short work of the paper. Lily tore her gaze from the fire to look at James. She owed it to Mary to speak to him, after all, and so she had to. Only, how to broach the subject?

“Is Sirius angry with me?” Lily said, and immediately winced. She sounded petulant to her own ears, like a child complaining to a teacher.

James grew confused. “I don’t know. Is he?”

“Seems like it.” She supposed detailing their interactions would support her question, but she could think of nothing more embarrassing than that. 

“I don’t think he has any reason to be.”

“Neither do I.” Lily hesitated. “Except, er, what happened that night. Over Easter, I mean.”

Some of James’s confusion gave way — to mortification. “We were drunk. It’s not— Don’t make it weird, Evans.”

 _She,_ make it weird? That was all his doing, surely. But Lily bit back this protest and merely nodded. 

“But — it’s not that? Not some sort of protective best mate thing?”

He shook his head. “Sirius doesn’t know.”

For a moment there was only the crackle of the fire, the low rustle of the trees in the Forbidden Forest far below them. She had missed the mark with him — again. What a funny thing, that she should struggle so much with knowing him on some occasions, and understand by easy instinct on others.

“Oh. Then I suppose it’s not that.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Don’t say anything to him, would you?” Lily said quickly. At his questioning glance, she said, “It would only make things worse.”

“If you say so.”

The book bonfire was beginning to die down, leaving a mound of ashes and shreds of scorched cloth binding. Lily extinguished the embers and gathered up the remains with a spell, casting the whole mess neatly over the edge of the battlements. By her wandlight, she could see a faint dark smudge on the flagstone where the fire had been. 

“ _Scourgify,_ ” James said, catching her looking. And then it was as if nothing had happened there at all.

But, no, that wasn’t true. Something always lingered in memory, in feeling. 

“Just tell me you have no hard feelings,” said Lily quietly. She thought of the cold, bored way Sirius had told her that James had not finished reading _Persuasion._

The corners of his mouth twitched. “None whatsoever. Don’t let me contribute to your sleeplessness.”

She smiled in return, slight though it was. “You wish you kept me up at night, Potter.”

“I think the point I’m trying to make is quite the opposite,” James said wryly. He turned round so his back was against the wall, his face in shadowed profile from where she stood. “I don’t.”

 _I don’t._ Lily turned away from the night sky, gesturing for him to lead the way back into the castle. She felt she was leaving some weight behind there, her steps lighter as she followed him. But she could not deny an odd, niggling sense of foreboding. As if she had made a decision of import that locked her into some kind of destiny, even though _she_ had only asked a question. 

She shook off the feeling once they were in the torchlit corridor. The two of them were all right, and that was comfort enough to cap off this strange, frenzied evening. Lily thought, _Mum won't believe when I write her—_ and then she remembered all over again, and without realising it she had stopped walking.

"Evans?"

She blinked away the tears that had started to gather in her eyes. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"S'all right." James shoved his hands in his pockets. "Do you wanna talk about it, or..."

If she said it she would cry. If she tried to describe the vortex of grief that clamped down around her — suddenly, with little reason — she would only sink deeper into it. 

"I think I need to write my sister," she said instead, surprised by the certainty in her voice.

James too seemed a little taken aback, but he nodded. "Want company in the Owlery?"

Lily smiled faintly, touched more than she could say by this offer. She was beginning to understand that James did not think twice about such things — that giving was natural to him, so long as one did not constantly reject his olive branches.

"What'll you do, keep watch while I send my owl off?"

He shrugged, his expression darkening slightly. "Just because Mulciber's gone, doesn't mean Rosier and Avery and...the rest of them won't be up to something. Maybe none of us should be walking around alone."

If he wanted to keep his distance, why would he offer?

"All right," she said, "let's go."

Gryffindor Tower was on the way; they stepped into the common room so that Lily could get parchment and a quill. She hurried up the girls' staircase, and returned a few minutes later to find James deep in conversation with Quentin Kravitz, one of the Gryffindor Chasers. She could wait, she reasoned, and she sat down in an armchair.

But she hadn't been seated for thirty seconds when Remus appeared, a folded letter in his hand. He pointed at her with it. "Late-night Owlery trip?"

"What? Oh, yes." Lily looked down at the paper she held as if she'd only just noticed it. 

"Want me to drop yours off with Peppermint?"

"Don't be silly," she told him, smiling as she stood. "I'm perfectly capable of going myself. I was just..." A glance at James, who was still talking to Quentin. Company was company. 

Remus followed her gaze. "Oh, sorry. Were you waiting for—"

"I didn't want to walk alone, is all," Lily said. After the words were out she realised they did not actually explain much. "Are you sure— I haven't actually written it yet, it'll take me some time to properly think what to—"

" _Lily,_ don't be daft. Let's just go."

And his smile was so warm and friendly, such a balm in comparison to Sirius's wintry disposition, that she felt the tension in her shoulders ease. There wasn't some grand conspiracy surrounding her. How self-centred was that, anyway? 

"All right," she said, and she followed him out of the portrait hole without a backwards glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll admit, this chapter was such a strain to write that i really worried i wouldn't get it done in time to continue weekly updates. but i have succeeded! endings changed, scenes completely diverged from my original vision, and i learned that going from detailed outlines to three-word bullet points is hard for the writing process, actually.
> 
> this chapter owes its beginning to "i've got a secret" and "shit song" by kate nash, and its ending to "help!" by the beatles and "prelude" by tessa violet. i have to say, sirius's huge heel turn was not really in the cards, but he has surprised me with his vitriol, so... 
> 
> if you've noticed, my chapters have been getting ever so slightly longer, much to my dismay — discipline out the window, is what's happening. (jk it's just that storylines are really getting bigger and bigger.) so you can probably expect meatier updates, which hopefully is a good thing!!
> 
> extra notes and music can be found on my tumblr page @thequibblah, on which i am much more active these days, so do head over there and send me a prompt if you wish! if you do, i make the humblest request that you reblog content of mine when you see something you like. i do this for fun, obviously, but it truly makes my day when someone just puts something happy in their tags when they engage with what i write. you don't even have to say something directly to me if that makes you shy!!
> 
> it's a joy going on this strange, wild journey with you. thank you so much for reading!
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	25. Maybe, Maybe Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Lily thinks she drunkenly kissed James (she didn't) but decides not to Dex when drops the l-word. Someone's written a diary of scandalous exploits pretending to be Mary, and she has to deal with the fallout after the diary is found. Marissa worries that Doc snogged Mary after they started dating because of that diary. Sirius continues to be a lowkey dick to Lily in order to keep her away from James (it makes sense in his head!) and has a run-in with Prof. Thorpe. 
> 
> NOW: Lily brews a potion, almost, and makes a decision. James slips up, almost, and tells it like it is. Doe receives a friendly overture, almost, and listens in. Germaine forgives, almost, and doesn't quite move on.

_i. Say It With Flowers_

> _Lily,_
> 
> _I’ve been up to see the house this weekend. The estate agent has it staged and everything, it’s strange. But work is fine. Vernon is well. I’m keeping busy._
> 
> _As for your question — keeping a secret can be for the best. Especially when you’ve already kept it for a while. Are you going to tell me why you’re asking?_
> 
> _I found Dad’s favourite drinking chocolate in the corner shop, by the way. I’m cutting back on sugar, so it’s useless to me, but I know you still enjoy it. I’m sending it with your bird._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Petunia_

This was the letter Lily had been turning over in her hands as the dungeons filled with sixth years. Mary was on her right, up against the wall and eyeing Anthony Avery; he eyed her back, and Lily glared at him for good measure when she caught sight of him above her letter.

Remus dropped into the empty spot to her left, abruptly cutting off both girls’ views of the Slytherins.

“Morning, Lily, Mary,” he said, smiling at them. 

“You’re in a good mood,” Lily said. “What’s the cause, then?”

“Can’t I be happy to see my mates on a Friday?”

She smiled back. “You can,” she allowed, “but any amount of cheer this early makes me suspicious.”

He pulled out _Advanced Potion Making_ and let his bag slide to the ground.

“I like it when the weather turns,” was his response.

The weather _had_ turned; the days were growing noticeably longer now, and though it was always chilly this far north, the usual nip in the air had a blunted edge. 

“So do I,” said Lily. “But the weather turning means summer, which means…” 

She’d never minded the holidays at home, but she had no blueprint whatsoever for what this summer would look like. Petunia had replied to her owl, which was a good sign, but her sister remained unpindownable, no less in writing than in person. 

And her response — _keeping a secret can be for the best_ — only reminded her that Vernon did not know about Lily’s magical other life. Did Tuney really think that was a secret worth keeping?

Remus’s smile had dimmed somewhat. “We can all Apparate now,” he pointed out. With hesitation, he gestured towards the letter she still held. “From your sister?”

“Yes.” She stowed it away, sighing, and took out her books in its place. “I shouldn’t complain, really. I asked her opinion on what to do about something and she gave it.”

“Not the answer you wanted, then.”

“No,” Lily admitted. And therein lay the problem, because Mary — despite her forceful personality — would never have pushed her to tell Dex the truth. She would not have done anything on her behalf, not without Lily’s approval. Now, more than ever — with half the school population giving her nasty looks in the halls — she would not act for her.

Lily could concede, at last, that she’d needed a nudge. Just someone to tell her she was doing the right thing. That the consequences — for there would be consequences — would be worth bearing. 

“If you’re waiting to hear a particular answer,” Remus said carefully, “then maybe it’s what you ought to have done all along.” 

She gave him a good-natured grimace. “I reckon you’re right. Cowardice got the better of me.”

He grew very serious all of a sudden. “It gets the better of all of us, sometimes.”

Before Lily could think what to say in response, Slughorn bustled into the classroom, already beaming to himself. That was how she knew today’s lesson would be a challenge — the good, solvable kind, and she smiled bright with anticipation. She would brew a damn good potion, she would think, and she would speak to her boyfriend. 

“Sit down, sit down, Potter — Black, _put_ that thing away— Now!” He clapped his hands together as the class settled. “Our work in love potions has been leading up to this day, as many of you have no doubt realised. Who can tell me why Amortentia is the last love potion we will attempt this year?”

“It’s the strongest love potion we know of, sir,” Dorcas said from one row behind Lily, Mary, and Remus. 

The professor nodded. “But it has its shortcomings, which are—?”

Lily’s hand rose, seemingly of its own volition. When Slughorn called on her, she answered, “Nothing can manufacture love. Amortentia can only produce a strong infatuation, like all love potions, and has to be given in repeated doses for the attachment to hold.”

“Very good, Lily, very good. Exams are approaching, as you all know—” a collective exhalation from the class “—but I will require one last long essay next week as we enter our review period. However, the best Amortentia brewer today will earn respite from the essay.” A pause for drama, and several students straightened. “I don’t expect anyone to actually succeed, of course, it’s a fantastically difficult potion — but I expect some first-class attempts.” 

Slughorn scanned the class, his gaze lingering on Lily, and somewhere in a back corner. She knew, without having to look, that Severus sat there. 

The professor waved his wand, and a long list of directions appeared on the chalkboard.

“You may begin!”

A flurry of activity, as students flipped through their textbooks and began to copy down Slughorn’s instructions. Lily had the table of contents in _Advanced Potion Making_ dog-eared, and easily located the section on love potions. Powdered moonstone, Ashwinder eggs, mother-of-pearl, roses… A glance at the board told her what she’d definitely need, and what she could consider adding as improvisation. One had to wonder how many ingredients in this brew were stylistic.

Then again, love was a thing with flair and bravura. Particularly obsessive, romantic love, Lily thought. Nothing close to what she felt for anyone. How did Amortentia compare to how Dex felt about her, she wondered? 

Once she’d compiled a list of things she needed, she made her way to the stock cupboard. Arms full, she was on her way back to her cauldron when she paused in front of Slughorn. The professor’s desk was piled with unusual extra ingredients particular to Amortentia — clumps of flowers, mostly roses, peppermint leaves.

“Professor?”

“Yes, m’dear?”

Lily took a moment to adjust the heap of ingredients she held. “What makes a great love potion? I mean, not the technical things, I know that — the spirals of smoke, the colour. But the Philiatonic, I — we—” it was only fair to say _we,_ that had been a reluctant joint effort between her and Severus “—added essence of—”

“Verite, I remember.” Slughorn chortled, shaking his head. “Clever, clever.”

It _had_ been clever. It had also been Severus’s idea, not hers. He knew far more about potioneering and magical plants than she did, extra years of exposure and reading that she couldn’t hope to catch up on. For so many other potions she had an instinct for what worked best. Mint for Calming Draughts, ground almonds in the tricky Draught of Living Death. 

But where did she even start with Amortentia? 

“Well, yes, like that. I was wondering if you had any tips.”

“Ah, I can’t play favourites.” He winked. “I will say that I find love potions made in large batches impersonal. You all are making smaller amounts, of course, just by the sizes of your cauldrons, but that’s my recommendation. _Be personal.”_

Lily smiled and nodded to conceal her disappointment. That was the exact thing she could not do, and the exact thing she could not provide. Still, she would do her best; the itch to attend to this challenge was rising in her once again.

“I know that look,” Slughorn said happily. “I look forward to seeing a real contender of a potion from you.”

Her smile became a grin. “It’ll be a winner, professor. _Not_ that I need to be excused from homework.”

His delighted laugh followed her back to her cauldron.

“Swot,” Mary muttered when she sat down again. Lily snorted and began sorting through her ingredients.

“Any hints?” Remus said on her other side, not looking up from his textbook.

“Would I share even if he’d given me one?”

“For your dear friend, you’d do anything,” came the dry response.

“I can’t believe Moony’s abandoned us for the swots,” James said at the very back of the dungeon, frowning at the back of his friend’s head.

“It was only a matter of time,” Sirius replied, chucking what looked like an enormous rock into his potion. Its audible splash made Slughorn look at them nervously.

“I think you’re supposed to crush the moonstone first, Padfoot,” said Peter from James’s other side, which made him laugh.

“If you ask me, it’s stupid that we learn to brew these,” Sirius said, merrily stirring his potion in the wrong direction. “They’re literally banned. They’re _dangerous substances._ And they teach us how to make them? That’s just a recipe for trouble.”

“You’d think that’d make you more enthusiastic about it,” said James as he counted stirs under his breath. 

“You can’t even use this for entertainment. It’s cheap and below-the-belt.”

On that count, James agreed. What _was_ the point of Amortentia? It was fake, anyway, and veered too close to compulsion for his liking. He planned on _trying_ not to blow up his cauldron...emphasis on _try._ If he started a fire in the dungeon, perhaps Slughorn would let them all have a break from essays.

“Dad thinks love potions are rot,” said James by way of agreement. Rare was the occasion on which he would appeal to authority, but considering his talent in Potions was more in the pyrotechnics department, he thought it worthwhile.

Not so far away, Severus Snape scoffed at this statement. All three Marauders’ heads swung towards him.

“What was that, Snivelly?” Sirius said softly. He ignored Peter’s warning look.

“I _said,”_ said Snape, “that you _would_ think your precious family’s the be all, end all, wouldn’t you?”

“You _would_ think Amortentia’s worth your time,” replied James, “considering it’s the only way you could get someone to come near you.”

Snape scoffed again.

“Or he could wash his hair,” said Sirius. “Which one’s more likely?”

Peter was glancing apprehensively at the front of the class, where Slughorn was — for the time being — chatting away with Amelia Bones. 

“You just wait,” Snape muttered.

“Christ, where’ve I heard that before,” Sirius said, barking out a laugh. “I hope you learn a better threat along with your love potion.”

Snape was painstakingly sprinkling a handful of moonstone powder into his cauldron, making it sizzle and snap. “At the end of the day, Potter’s going to need a love potion to get where _he_ wants,” he said, so quietly James thought — hoped — he’d misheard. “Maybe Lily ought to watch her food and drink today.”

“You’re disgusting,” James said coldly. _Keep her name out of your mouth,_ he wanted to add. 

“Fuck yourself,” Sirius tacked on, and with a flick of his wand, caused Snape to dump the rest of his moonstone into the cauldron in one go. His face went slack with horror. 

Slughorn, making his rounds, had at last come within sight of Snape and the Marauders. His jovial expression dimmed at the sight of Snape’s cauldron.

“Well, we have our bad days, all of us,” Slughorn said, though it was so threaded with disappointment James couldn’t imagine anyone would take it as reassurance.

“Professor, it was—” Snape glanced at the Marauders, who bent over their work in unison. James saw him scowl out of the corner of his eye. “Too much moonstone,” Snape mumbled at last.

Slughorn nodded. “Not past salvaging, Severus, take heart…”

Snape made a noise of agreement and busied himself more urgently with his supplies. Slughorn came closer to the Marauders, who at least attempted to look like they were working at Amortentia. Peter’s potion was quickly becoming the colour of tar; the professor passed over it with a wince and no comment. Sirius’s was a lilac sort of shade that would have infuriated James had this been a subject he cared about. Somehow, his friend had mustered a half-decent potion. 

“On its way,” Slughorn said to Sirius, sounding quite surprised by it. “Ah, Potter…”

The two of them looked at James’s half-finished potion, which was decidedly more golden than pink.

“You’ve forgotten the rose thorns,” said Slughorn at once.

James looked at his chopping board, which did indeed still have rose thorns on it. “Oh. Right.”

A heavy sigh. “We’re not yet at the halfway mark of class. You could start again.”

“Right, maybe I’ll do that,” James said, which had the desired effect of _sounding_ like commitment but meaning that both of them knew he would do nothing of the sort. 

“Good, good. _Evanesco,”_ Slughorn said, emptying his cauldron, and walking away with another sigh.

James stared at its reflective insides. “Well, what should I make instead of Amortentia?”

The usual break in the middle of Double Potions was a break in name only. The students whose attempts at Amortentia were a lost cause could afford to stretch their legs. Lily stayed glued to her cauldron, glancing over her shoulder to note who else did. Amelia Bones, of course; Doe; Remus, though he was frowning at his potion; Bertram Aubrey; and far in the back of the class, Severus, Sirius, and James.

 _That_ was a surprise. 

“Mare, my fingers are cramping,” said Lily as students filed into the classroom once more. “Would you mind doing my stirring for a moment?”

Mary stared apprehensively at her cauldron, the contents of which were a very pale silver. “You’ve added about thirty-five things to that, and spent an hour on it. You want _me_ to stir?”

Lily smiled. “Slowly, clockwise. You’ll be fine.” The potion was at the point where slow stirring would not make it or break it — or so she believed, at least. 

There were ingredients in Slughorn’s instructions that were entirely unfamiliar to her, plants that they hadn’t yet covered in Herbology. She’d gone by the book with them, but his words had rung in her ear: _be personal._

Instinct had driven her towards the flowers and herbs on his desk while others pondered fine, iridescent fairy wings and sprigs of Niffler’s Fancy. Rose was a given, of course; she had stripped hers of thorns first, chopping and juicing them separately. But she wanted something else.

It wasn’t just a feeling. Lily reasoned that Slughorn wouldn’t have given them quite so much to choose from if he hadn’t had something in mind. As she shook out her fingers, wandering again to the front of the classroom, she scanned the riot of buds and blossoms. Her mother had been obsessed with the language of flowers, had had little pocketbooks about them that Lily read cover to cover as a child, bored enough to memorise the backs of shampoo bottles. 

That had hurt like a gut-punch in the days after her passing. Every bouquet sent to the house — kind gestures though they were — had felt like a message her mother’s whispered voice could decode. 

Lily heard the voice again now: red roses, love. Daisy, innocence. Holly for defence, monkshood for a warning — maybe there was some truth in those pocketbooks. Hesitating, Lily picked up a burst of tiny, star-like flowers. They were almost like daffodils, but not quite. They were…

“Jonquil,” she said aloud, pleased to have remembered. _Love me, jonquil,_ like a plea. Lily could not have said if that was the definitive Amortentia ingredient she was looking for, but it was personal. It was hers. 

She returned to her cauldron with the flowers in hand, relieving a nervous Mary from stirring duty. The flowers had prodded some part of her brain, which was now overflowing with suggestions. Perhaps cinnamon, to balance the cool peppermint, and provide heat? Perhaps cocoa, for sweet-bitterness? 

“Found your second wind, have you?” Remus murmured.

Lily looked up, tying back her hair so that she could work without distractions. She realised she was grinning, and rather manically at that.

“I don’t know if I’m making Amortentia or a horrible mess,” she said, “but I have a good feeling about it.”

Slughorn came by on another circuit of the classroom; Lily held her breath to hear what he would say. To her surprise, he did not seem disappointed, but nor did he seem buoyant, as he always did when she succeeded. He never could hide his appreciation. No, Slughorn looked curious, surprised. As if she had taken a path he hadn’t expected her to take.

“Interesting,” was all he said. It felt better than his highest praise.

This was a competition, though, and it was entering its end stage. Lily kept half her attention on the professor as he walked round the classroom, murmuring at each cauldron he passed. At most he nodded or shook his head, crestfallen. No one had had a comment like hers yet.

Until Slughorn came to Severus; for this, Lily did risk a backward glance.

“Aha, you’ve undone your moonstone error,” Slughorn exclaimed, delighted. “Did you start fresh?”

“No,” Severus said, his voice so low Lily had to strain to hear him. Only the echoing quiet of the dungeon allowed it. “It was like you said. Salvageable.” 

Lily pressed her lips together. _Not everything is,_ she thought, and that wasn’t just her competitive drive speaking.

“Excellent. You’ve got a few more steps remaining, but excellent progress indeed — the turnaround itself—”

She rolled her shoulders and her neck. She too had only a few steps to go. A little extra pearl — Lily worried she’d had too heavy a hand — but Mary gasped loudly at her side. The glassy, near-silver colour rippled into a pale pink.

Only a few more steps to go. 

“What d’you reckon it’ll smell like?” Mary whispered.

Lily had not given it a thought. The process of it had been too taxing to consider what the end product would mean. But she flushed as she considered it then. A potion didn’t have all the answers. That was like expecting a prophecy to spell your destiny out in clear terms — neither was telling, both were opaque. 

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. 

“Potter, this is not Amortentia,” Slughorn was saying far behind her. He did not sound angry, but wary, as he tended to be around the Marauders.

“Oh, Merlin,” said Remus.

Lily laughed quietly.

“No, Professor.” James was using a voice he reserved for McGonagall: charming, tinged with an innocent _who, me?_ often belied by whatever smoking ruin she’d come to question him about. 

“What _is_ it, pray tell?”

“Ah, sir, you’re the one who told us about Felix Felicis. Surely you know what it looks like.”

“Oh, Merlin,” said Remus again.

“I suppose this is why neither Pettigrew nor Black have potions? A joint effort?”

“Yep,” said Sirius cheerfully.

“And why did you feel this was the answer to the problem I posed to you at the start of class?”

“Well, Felix _does_ solve your problem,” James said, sounding absolutely earnest. “I reckon if you wanted to slip someone a love potion — a pretty shit choice, pardon me, sir—” a twittering wave went around the classroom; Slughorn only hummed “—what you really need is the courage to ask them the right way. So, Felix Felicis for luck.”

Lily laughed again, a little louder this time. 

“Creative,” Slughorn allowed. “If cheeky! Well, you bent the rules, boys, but I must admit, that’s liquid luck well-brewed — fifteen points to Gryffindor, even if I can’t let you off homework—”

“Professor, come on—” Sirius began.

Lily glanced over her shoulder at them again, grinning, as they protested Slughorn’s decision. James met her gaze mid-complaint and broke off to return her smile. 

And that was precisely when someone’s cauldron exploded, and the dungeon filled with noxious, bright-green smoke.

Their evacuation was swift and mostly orderly. Though Lily had been reluctant to abandon her potion, she had decided it was worth it in order to _not_ align herself with Bertram Aubrey, who seemed more concerned that he’d lost the chance to win Slughorn’s competition than the fact that he’d started a proper fire in the classroom. 

No one was entirely sure how it had happened, but a story came together in the corridor as Slughorn hovered anxiously in the doorway, waiting for Filch to arrive as backup and gently refusing the Prefects’ offers to help. Aubrey had added one too many unicorn hairs to his volatile concoction, and it had bubbled up and splashed into Lottie Fenwick’s, who had screamed and jumped back so as not to be burned, thereby knocking over her cauldron and Gaurav Singh’s to boot.

“Shame,” said Mary, who looked more excited than Lily had seen her since the snog diary debacle. “Your potion looked good, Lily.”

She shrugged, joking, “I’ll have to wait to know true love, I suppose.”

“I thought the first thing we established was it _isn’t_ true love,” said Germaine, who was watching the tendrils of smoke leaking out from under the classroom door with a panicked focus.

“I should’ve liked to know what it smells like to me, at least,” Doe said, frowning. “I didn’t think mine would turn out all right, but I’d have stuck my face in Lily’s—”

“With the amount of _flowers_ she put in it, her potion might as well have been Muggle hogwash,” Thalia Greengrass jeered from across the hall.

Lily grinned at her, which made her scowl deepen. “I’m so flattered to hear you were watching, Thalia. Hoping for some tips?”

The Slytherin harrumphed and turned away. 

Germaine let out a low whistle. “Hello, spunky Lily.”

“Aren’t I always spunky Lily?”

“She comes and she goes,” said Doe.

“Nothing like a good potion to get me going.”

“Ew, Lily,” said Mary. “We don’t want to know your weird kinks.”

She snorted a laugh and gave her friend a gentle shove, and for a moment everything was normal. Filch was stomping towards the classroom, muttering under his breath, and Slughorn made the mistake of opening the door and filling the corridor with the foul, sulphurous smoke, and the girls were coughing and laughing at the same time. Lily recalled her pale purple potion, how close it had been to completion, and found herself at peace with its unfinishedness. Next time she might know more about love before she began.

A faint breeze blew through the hallway, clearing the smoke but not dispelling it entirely; Lily turned round to see James had his wand out. He was not so subtly directing the smoke towards the Slytherins.

“What?” he said when he noticed she was looking. “If flowers are too Muggle for Greengrass, she can go about smelling like rotten eggs today.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You wish you’d thought of Felix Felicis before I did. Sluggy loves you so much, he’d have given you a pass on the essay.”

“I wouldn’t have needed two people to help me brew it.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.”

“Did it take Felix Felicis for you to ask Marissa out?” she teased.

“Luck is for lesser beings,” James informed her. “Lunch, however, rules all creatures. Time to head.” The wind died down; he stowed away his wand.

Lily very nearly said _we’ll come with you,_ meaning the girls, but caught sight of Sirius a half-step behind James. His cool gaze was more a warning than any verbal threat. 

_He will not ruin my mood,_ she told herself. He did not know, after all; James _said_ he hadn’t told him. But if he wanted to play the guard dog, Lily did not want to give him more opportunities to do so. It was exhausting, and she hadn’t the time for exhaustion.

Instead she said, “Remus, would you mind walking with me a moment?”

He acquiesced; she told the girls she’d meet them in the Great Hall and fell in step beside him.

“What you said earlier this morning,” Lily began, “about doing what I’d been meaning to do all along.”

“Yeah?” He seemed braced for something, which puzzled her, since Remus could not possibly know what she was worried about. 

“Do you think keeping a secret’s always a bad thing, when you’ve done something wrong?”

“I thought you said you’d decided,” Remus said, wry but not unkind.

Lily sighed. “I do. I have. I just need a way to lead into it.”

“I’ll need a little more information.”

“Well, all right—” She felt her cheeks flush. “It’s Dex. I’ve screwed it up, and he doesn’t know how, but I can’t _not_ tell him. It’s been a good while, so it won’t be easy to say. I _thought_ I could handle it, but lying — omitting the truth, whatever — just doesn’t sit right with me.”

His brows knitted together in thought. “Start by saying you want to be honest, I suppose. And then...be as honest as you want to be.”

Lily frowned. “You’re saying I should lie again?”

“Omitting the truth. Whatever,” Remus quoted back at her. “I’m saying if you’re going to break things off, you don’t have to make it brutal.”

She turned this over in her mind, coming to two interesting realisations. One was that she _did_ want to break it off, which she had not previously considered. Now it seemed quite obvious. In April she had hoped telling the truth would compel Dex to forgive her, but she no longer felt that pressure upon her desire to be honest. 

She could not go back. But she could not stand still either.

The other — which she came to more slowly, slanting a sideways glance at Remus — was that her friend was rather morally flexible when it came to secrets and lies. 

“I suppose,” she said at last.

“Full disclosure isn’t always easy to hear, Lily,” Remus warned.

James had said something of the sort to her too. Let things lie and start anew — things she had never been particularly good at. But Lily thought she could try. She was not Petunia.

They trooped into the Entrance Hall. After a beat of hesitation, Lily turned to him once more.

“About Sirius—”

A shadow fell over Remus’s face. Lily wondered if this was what he’d feared she would bring up from the start.

“He’s being a prick, I know. I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “You don’t have to be sorry. I just...don’t understand it.”

“Neither do I.”

She arched a sceptical eyebrow.

“Well, I do, sort of,” Remus amended. “But it’s not my place to say. And I _am_ sorry about that.”

“Your first loyalty’s to your friends,” said Lily, nodding. She had expected to arrive at this obstacle, and wasn’t too disappointed by it.

“ _You’re_ my friend,” he said, the force in his voice taking her by surprise. “And his being a prick shouldn’t overrule that. Look, just...try and avoid him.”

But it wasn’t Sirius she’d have to avoid, although she’d done a decent job of that so far. Lily simply nodded, rather than attempting to explain it all. Because James hadn’t told Sirius or Remus or Peter what had happened, and he had his reasons, and she ought to expect those reasons. The truth of that night hovered like a crystal-ball vision between herself and James only.

She was ending it with Dex, and he had Marissa, and his best mate hated her. It was time for distance, she thought; distance, and the hope that taking a step back would not let the crystal ball drop and shatter. She could manage distance, couldn’t she? She had years of practice at it. 

“Whatever happens, we’re still friends,” Lily said — not a question, but an assertion.

Remus’s smile was soft and, unless she was mistaken, relieved. “Well, of course we are.” He squeezed her shoulder briefly, and then they were at the doors to the Great Hall, where they parted ways.

“I think you need a new girl,” Mary said to Germaine as the girls sat down at the Gryffindor table. 

A series of grimaces crossed her face. “Do you?” Germaine said as if this were the most tedious statement she’d ever heard. “Because the last one went so well.”

Mary waved a hand. “Firsts are difficult.”

With a jolt Germaine realised that was what Emmeline was. A first. And would there be names and faces to follow, crowding out the memory of that night in the corridor? At seventeen life stretched on ahead of her, but she could not imagine it. 

“ _Your_ firsts all fell in love with you,” said Germaine, instead of vocalising her thoughts. 

Mary frowned. “This isn’t about me. Look, surely there’s other girls you’d snog?”

All three of them scanned the Great Hall in long, swooping glances. 

“Well, I suppose,” Germaine said slowly. 

“That’s a start,” said Mary. 

“They have to want to snog me.”

“That’d go for blokes just as well,” Doe said. “I mean, I know it’s different — but we’re looking for people who’ll reciprocate anyway.”

“And you didn’t expect Emmeline, did you? There could be plenty of other girls waiting to plant a juicy one on—”

“All _right,_ point taken, Mary.” 

“Maybe you need time off, not more drama,” Doe said, shooting a pointed glance at Mary. “Without being insensitive, I’ll just say that your approach didn’t go so well, Mare, and it might not be the best thing for—”

“How is that _not_ insensitive?”

Germaine blocked out their bickering and studied the faces of the older Gryffindors around them. Glumly she thought she sided with Doe on this. As much as she _wanted_ to be able to snog anyone she pleased, she would forever be nervous if it were a stranger. What if they judged her a poor kisser, and then talked about her behind her back? Just the thought that she had object permanence in other people’s minds was enough to make Germaine shudder.

But then again, if you _knew_ her and you snogged her you still risked her never speaking to you again except to say, “Your turn to cast the Shield Charm.” 

Just as an example, that is.

“I haven’t really tried to talk to Emmeline about it,” said Germaine. “Maybe I ought to—”

Mary’s face darkened. “I don’t know, Germaine. She’s had every opportunity to speak with you—”

“Except, she might’ve just needed space, and now she’s—” Dorcas began.

Mary scoffed. “ _Space?_ She’s not worth your time if she needs space from you—”

Doe set down her cutlery with a clink and arched a brow at Mary. “Right, what do you know that we don’t?”

Germaine frowned. “What? _Do_ you know something?”

Mary looked down at her plate. “I don’t — it’s just a feeling, all right? I don’t trust her, or her ilk.”

“Her ilk,” Germaine repeated. “Her _ilk,_ Mary.”

Dorcas was fighting to conceal laughter. “I think her _ilk_ here means Amelia Bones, and not, you know, lesbians.”

“If she even _is_ a lesbian,” said Germaine, the word falling like a stone from her lips. Was that what she herself was? Probably. 

Mary waved a hand. “Whatever. Point being, there’s other—”

But Germaine wasn’t listening — she was thinking. Amelia, and Emmeline, and Mary throwing a punch, and—

“What did she say to you?”

Mary broke off mid-stream. “What did who say to me?”

Germaine leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Stop messing, Mary. Amelia. She said something to you, and that’s why you socked her. Merlin, that’s why she was apologising to _me!”_

“No way,” Dorcas whispered. “Did she, Mare?” She glanced at the Hufflepuff table, her eyes narrowed. “I’ll go give her a piece of—”

“No!” Germaine grabbed onto her friend’s arm, though Doe had made no move to rise. “You’re not doing anything. And neither are you,” she added to Mary. 

Mary was glaring in the vague direction of Amelia. “I’ve already done my bit,” she said airily.

Germaine huffed out a humourless laugh. “It’s great that you’ll defend my honour, but I don’t _need_ you to. I don’t care what Amelia Bones says about me.” But even as she said it she knew it was a lie — they all knew it was.

What _had_ Amelia said? Had she extrapolated from what she’d seen, or had Emmeline told her something specific? Did they laugh together about stupid, moon-eyed Germaine? Her eyes burned.

“Oh, no, Germaine—” Mary reached over and squeezed her hand. “I didn’t want you to know, because I knew you’d be upset.” She gave Doe a look of reproach; Doe put up her hands in surrender.

“It’s fine,” said Germaine gruffly. “It’s fine, I’m fine—” She swiped at her eyes. Perhaps it would be better to know than not know…

As if she could see this train of thought behind Germaine’s eyes, Doe said, “If you want to know, Mary will tell you. _Right,_ Mare?”

“If you really want to. It’s not the worst thing she could’ve said. But it’s certainly not the best.”

Germaine swallowed hard. What business was it of other people’s, what she did and who she did it with? She resisted the urge to look at Amelia herself. The other witch had seemed genuinely contrite when she’d apologised — but then, that wasn’t the foremost concern on Germaine’s mind. She wished, suddenly, that she’d never asked at all, that she could’ve gone on living in ignorance about what Emmeline might or might not have said.

“I’d rather not,” she said at last. “I’m — done talking about it.”

Doe and Mary nodded in unison.

“It’s not worth the energy, Germaine,” said Doe softly.

Germaine squirmed and picked up her fork again. “Yeah. I know.”

Lily dropped into the empty spot beside Germaine on the bench, looking flushed. 

“You all right, Lil?” Doe said; all three of them turned to look at her. 

“What? Oh! Yes, I was just looking for— In any case I didn’t find—” Lily shook her head. “Oh, forget it, I’m fine.”

“You and me both,” Germaine said. 

* * *

_ii. Struck_

“—your section of the manuscript is three pages,” Professor Anderberg said, waving his wand; sheafs of parchment floated through the room and came to rest in front of students. 

“As I mentioned to you before, you overlap with the student before you and the student after you, so that one page is purely yours to decipher, but you are free to work collaboratively on the other two. Please rearrange yourselves in order… We will spend the remaining half-hour reading our sections, so that you may ask any questions—”

Doe leafed through the three slips of parchment in front of her, a meditative look coming over her. She hated to have such involved homework so near to exam season, but essays and problems had dropped off in favour of revision in nearly all of her classes. Only Anderberg offered this project, a sort of last-ditch mercy for anyone who flubbed the final exam. If your exam marks were very poor, the professor would average them out with your performance on the project. 

Of course, Doe didn’t plan on anything less than perfection for the exam. But she could hardly take a backseat to the project either. Anderberg thought himself very generous for this option, and she was not about to spit in the face of a professor whose recommendation would help her get admitted into the Auror program. 

The class was already full of movement; belatedly, she rose and scanned the rows of desks for her seat. She had pages seven through nine, but she knew already where that would place her. They had put down their names for the project in February, after all, when Anderberg had first mentioned it. And so she shared page nine with—

“Hi, Michael.” Doe dropped into the empty seat beside him, shooting a smile at the Hufflepuff girl across the aisle on her other side. 

He looked up. “Hi, Dorcas.” This, after weeks of not hearing it, struck her — how he always called her _Dorcas_ and not any one of the thousand nicknames her awkward, old-fashioned name had garnered. 

“Excited to dig into—” She squinted at the manuscript’s title. “An obscure rusalka story? Oh, that sounds quite interesting, actually.”

He chuckled. “It’s about to be the highlight of my May.”

How silly, how useless, to decide to fancy him _now_ — though, Doe knew logically that she hadn’t really decided anything of the sort. She cleared her throat and skimmed the parchment, already cataloguing runes that tripped her up. It was obviously more difficult than your average translation. Runes were, as it was, finicky things that resisted any attempt to pin them down, but Anderberg had chosen an especially tricky one. There would be no reference books in the library containing translated portions of this text.

“I reckon I’ll need a week or two to draft my translations, then I’ll cross-check with Kemi—” the Hufflepuff girl “—and we can go over page nine afterwards?”

“You won’t need a week or two,” said Michael. “But I will, so that’s fine by me.”

She hated the easy way he complimented her, like it was a done thing, so obvious it did not need to come with fanfare. He hadn’t even looked up, though one corner of his mouth quirked up in a half-smile. 

Doe thought of Mary, whose entanglements had caught her in an awful web, and of Germaine, whose sweet crush had hurt and confused her, and of Lily, who obviously had _something_ on with her boyfriend but was too — proud? afraid? to say it. It would be colossally poor judgment to have seen all this and still stumble deeper into this situation.

Not that it _was_ a situation, per se.

She had runes to work on.

Doe pulled out a fresh piece of parchment, titled it _Final Translation, Rough Draft #1,_ and squinted at the first line. Her excerpt began mid-sentence. She sighed and turned to her left — towards Kemi, not Michael — and asked if she could please take a look at page seven.

Only now was Doe realising how small Hogwarts was, and how small her friend circle was within that already-small group. Mary was the one who knew people, and Lily was the one with prefect mates; Doe, as a generally nice person, knew all their friends and got on with them. But she had spent the better part of the year in Ancient Runes sitting and studying with Michael, only to look up and realise the class had formed its own friendships without her. 

The large contingent of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws moved like one big flock, and Michael melted into its members seamlessly. Doe had lingered as she’d packed her things, expecting at least one of the girls to fall into step beside her, but none did. This, she suspected, was the fallout from the business with the diary. 

That did not bother her too much. Anyone who would treat her differently because of nasty rumours about her best mate didn’t deserve her friendship anyway. It would all blow over soon enough — and even if it didn’t, summer wasn’t far off, and Doe knew everyone would find better things to talk about by then.

As she left the classroom, she wondered if Michael was one of those people — one of those judgmental pricks whispering about Mary. It seemed uncharacteristic...but, she thought unhappily, more surprising things had happened this term.

“Boo,” a voice said, making her jump about ten feet into the air.

“Merlin,” Doe said when she’d recovered, frowning at Mary. “Was that necessary?”

“Yes,” Mary replied, grinning. “I’ve just spent this free period in the library, so I have to get my kicks somewhere. Supper?”

Doe thought Mary’s sudden tendency to pop up after the classes they did not share had less to do with study habits and more to do with her desire not to be alone, but she knew better than to say it aloud.

She sighed. “Oh, I can’t. I’ve got Slug—”

“—horn’s dinner, _fuck,”_ Mary finished, slapping a hand to her forehead. “I hope it all ends in a letter from the Auror program begging you to join.”

“Or it won’t have been worth it?” Doe smiled.

“At least you’re chipping away at Sluggy’s alcohol stash. Brandy?”

“Don’t get too excited. He’s promised us perry tonight, though.”

Mary’s brows rose. “He’s got the exact same taste in drink as my mum.”

“You have the same taste in drink as Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

“ _Say, could that lad be I_ ,” Mary sang in response. “Speaking of lads, have you—”

“No,” said Doe.

“You didn’t even let me finish!”

“And for good reason.”

“I was going to say, have you heard about your translation project yet,” said Mary pointedly. 

“I don’t believe you, but I’ll let you pretend,” Doe said. “Yes, we just have. Michael and I will need to go over ours by the end of the month, but I’m hoping it’ll be a quick thing.” She did not _want_ to talk about him but she knew that was what Mary was really asking about, and thought it better to meet her head-on than dance around the subject. 

“So...you’re avoiding him now?”

“He was avoiding me first.”

“But _you’re_ avoiding _him_ now?”

“Mary!” Doe gave her a look; she made a noise of surrender that was simultaneously a noise of disbelief. “I thought you’d be pleased I’m moving on with my life.”

“Are you? You’re not just pining from afar?”

“Keep your voice down,” Doe hissed, avoiding her gaze. 

“No one heard,” said Mary with impatience. “Relax. I’m not interrogating you, Doe, I’m only asking.”

Doe bit back a snide response. She knew Mary meant well. But when it came to boys her friend was _too_ sharp, and knew her _too_ well. There were some things about herself Doe did not want pointed out. 

They arrived at Gryffindor Tower having discussed little else of importance. “ _Apis_ ,” Doe told the Fat Lady, and they ducked through the portrait hole. 

“Another evening, another set of dress robes,” she sighed. She had only two, because her Muggle-born parents found them quite funny and old-fashioned. Doe agreed, but such thinking did not serve her well at Slughorn’s dinners, which were full of the stuffy pureblood sort. 

“Want my help with the alteration charms?” Mary said. 

“Yes, please.”

Sirius Black was bored and alone. 

Well, _bored_ wasn’t the right word. He had enough self-awareness to recognise those dangerous bouts of ennui, and this was not one of them. But he had nothing to do. Peter and Remus were poring over homework, James was out, and he, Sirius, was restless. 

There, that was a better word. He discreetly checked the map to confirm where James was, then searched its contours for any piece of entertainment the castle might have to offer. Peeves was off in a corner of the second floor. Students were clustered in Slughorn’s office. Intriguing…

But then Sirius remembered his probationary status all over again. It was not yet past curfew, but he could hardly engage in mischief on his own, not without risk of being caught. He stifled a sigh. Thorpe was, unfortunately, rubbing off on him. 

Oh, she never treated him differently in class, nor did she seek him out to lecture him about his precarious future. In fact, since he had carted around books for her he had hardly run into the professor. But her words rang uncomfortably in his mind. 

_You remind me of my brother._ And, _he’s dead._ Sort of a morbid thing to tell your student, he thought. He couldn’t picture McGonagall saying the same thing to him. What was it about him, that made him reminiscent of a dead man? Sirius glanced at the dungeons again. If he was restless, he could at least ask questions. 

“I’m going out,” he announced, getting to his feet. 

“Where to?” Remus said, not looking up from his work. 

“Kitchens,” Sirius lied. 

“It’s nearly curfew,” said Peter, frowning. 

“I’ve got the map, I’ll be fine.”

“If they’ve got any of those little pies from supper, bring me one,” Remus said. 

Sirius said he would, and set off for one of the castle’s secret staircases. He’d need to be quick.

* * *

_iii. Head to Head_

“—the new Wizengamot bill, you know, much debate indeed. I don’t suppose you have any inside information, Amelia?” Slughorn was saying at one end of the long table. 

Doe didn’t listen to Amelia demurring; she was certain Slughorn was only asking as a formality. He seemed less interested in the how and what of the Ministry, and far more in the who. The bill in question had something to do with magical assembly, according to the _Prophet,_ which had happily found its new governmental scapegoat now that the public outrage about the Hogsmeade murders’ stall had died down. The paper was vague on detail, so Doe knew it was probably a complicated bill they did not want to delve too deeply into, lest it confuse rather than anger its readers. 

She set down her silver pudding spoon and pushed back her chair with all the others. At the end of the dinner a handful of students always jockeyed to say goodbye to — and ask favours of — Slughorn, as if making final requests of some benevolent god. Doe had thus far resisted that impulse, just saying goodbye on her way out, but the pudding had been _incredibly_ good. She could tell him that, and maybe casually mention the Wizengamot internship… 

It all made her feel skeevy, the string-pulling and name-dropping, but it had become plain that this was the only way she could work her way to where she wanted to be. She saw it in Amelia Bones’s knife-sharp conversation, in Sara’s easy charm — it was a language they all spoke, and one she would have to learn. She saw it now, as she lingered, in the cold planes of Alec Rosier’s face.

He looked much older than eighteen. Or, it seemed that way to Doe. He was taller than Slughorn, his low, crisp voice a contrast to the professor’s bluster. 

“—a letter again, that would be very helpful, sir,” Rosier murmured.

Slughorn’s grin faltered. “Is Professor Thorpe not supervising you?”

“She is, but I’d hate to pester her, you know—”

“But you wouldn’t mind pestering me?” said Slughorn, with a booming laugh. “Very well, I’ll speak to Madam Pince — no point in the Restricted Section if clever students can’t read what’s in it—”

The Restricted Section? Doe kept her expression impassive, but her gaze remained on Rosier’s back as he slipped out of Slughorn’s office. 

“Miss Walker,” Slughorn called, “good to see you again this week.”

“Thank you for the invitation,” said Doe, and found that she mostly meant it — even if half of her brain was occupied trying to puzzle out what Rosier was doing in the Restricted Section. If Thorpe was involved, it was probably related to Defence Against the Dark Arts, as far-removed as that seemed from Rosier… 

She remembered, suddenly, their first Hogsmeade weekend of the year, when Sirius had pointed out Thorpe arguing with the elder Rosier brother. Doe had assumed, as all the other Gryffindor sixth-years had, that Thorpe and the Rosiers were naturally opponents, considering their views. But was Thorpe helping Alec with something?

What was it? Did the professor suspect at all that he might have something to do with the attacks on Muggle-born students? 

Doe had been so long in thought that she’d missed what Slughorn had said to her; he was waiting, expectantly, for an answer.

“Oh, sorry, sir,” she said brightly, “the supper got me so full I can barely think.”

This had the desired effect. Slughorn gave her a genial smile. “Keep on impressing, my girl — Duelling Club this weekend, yes?”

“That’s right.”

“Best of luck. Oh, you’d better hurry back to Gryffindor Tower, curfew’s coming along…”

Dorcas bade him goodnight and left. The dungeons were mostly empty, the other guests having filtered back to their dorms ahead of her. She made for the west end of the castle, towards the tower — but it occurred to her after a few strides that Rosier would have gone the other way, and she could follow him for at least part of the journey upstairs. 

She couldn’t say what good it would do, but it was worth trying, anyway. If only Pince wasn’t so caustic, Doe could’ve tried asking _her_ what Rosier and his posse were working on — because what were the odds that he was acting alone? But the goodwill most authorities at Hogwarts had for her did not extend to the librarian. 

_Maybe I’m overreacting,_ Doe thought as she arrived in the hushed Entrance Hall. Maybe Rosier really _was_ simply reading for class.

In any case, he was long gone.

Lily had debated whether or not to ask one of the Marauders where Dex was. He had proven quite slippery during the day. But after dinner he would certainly return to the Hufflepuff common room — where else was there to go?

He was indeed in the common room, sitting in the sofa she’d come to think of as his. He spotted her at once and waved, and Lily waved back.

It hit her, in that moment, that she no longer fancied him. It was a sad sort of realisation, and she wanted to needle at its origin, to figure out when, exactly, her feelings had changed. Perhaps she had a tendency to force things where there was little to be had. Perhaps she had felt too easily carried away by inertia, because it was always easier to avoid change.

Especially change that caused people pain. 

Something in her expression must have shown this line of thought, because Dex’s smile faltered. Lily reminded herself that it was no better or worse this way. It would hurt, and she’d need to rip the plaster off. Hadn’t Mary told her the very same thing over Easter?

“Hi,” she said, sitting on the sofa next to him.

“Hi,” he said, a hint of wariness in his voice.

“How was your day?”

Dex raised his eyebrows, but said, “Fine. And yours?”

She wanted to look at her lap, where her fingers were knotted together, but forced herself to stare straight at him.

“Good. Slughorn tried to get us to brew Amortentia.”

At this relatively harmless subject, Dex grew less tense.

“Tried,” he repeated, smiling a little. “You’ll get a second go at it next year. Unless you managed it?”

“Oh, no. I didn’t get the chance. Someone caused a minor explosion.”

“Typical.”

“It did make me think,” Lily forged on, “about...you know. Love.” She could feel her cheeks heating up. “That sounds silly. But, er, what you said— What I haven’t said back, that is—”

“It really doesn’t—” The tips of his ears grew red as well.

“No, no, just listen to me.” She took a deep breath. It hadn't simply been the uncertainty that had come over her when faced with the notion of love. It had been — the freedom to think through a challenge, the feeling of a clear mind for the first time in weekends, the sudden clarity. “I think with my mum, with everything that’s been happening, I need to be alone. I need to sort out what I feel. And it’s not fair to let your feelings for me just...tie you to me while I do—”

Dex was frowning. “But Lily, I—”

“I know you think it’s all right. And that you could wait. But that’s not what I want.” It felt good to say them aloud, those words: _that’s not what I want._ Even if she didn’t know what she _did_ want half of the time, she was beginning to recognise when she _didn’t_ want something. 

“So that’s it,” Dex said softly. 

He looked so crestfallen. Lily reached out to squeeze his shoulder. 

“I really don’t want to hurt you. But I think it would just be worse if I...didn’t say something now. I feel as though I’m misleading you.” 

This was the closest she had come to mentioning that night over Easter; a ripple of unease went through her. But Remus was right. She didn’t have to make things worse — and what did it matter, who she’d kissed, when the bottom line was the same? 

“You want me to say I understand,” he said.

She nodded in the pause that followed.

His frown deepened. “I don’t. I thought things were all right — did I say something? Do something?”

“It’s not that simple,” said Lily. A lump was rising in her throat. “And I’m better at pretending things are all right than I should be.”

Dex sucked in a breath as if she’d hit him. Lily pressed her lips together, her guilt growing by the minute. She had not expected him to argue the point — but then again, she had never before broken up with someone. 

“Just let me go,” she whispered. 

She could have said more — pointed out that in a few months he would be gone, and that distance would dull whatever he felt for her. But at last he nodded, and she didn’t think she had the energy for any more conversation. With one last murmured “I’m sorry” Lily hurried out of the room.

There was a loud buzzing in her ears, slowly fading. The entire corridor seemed so blanketed in silence, every sound of hers was magnified tenfold. The susurration of her robes as she moved, the soft tap of her shoes against the stone. Lily felt terribly raw, like an open wound. She needed a breath of air.

She missed her mother.

In minutes she was in the courtyard, shivering. She put the cold aside, hopping up on the stone half-wall, and tipped her head back. The quietest, most beautiful thing about Hogwarts was the stars, she thought, how brilliant they were even from the castle’s lowest point. They were never so bright in Cokeworth. Lily knew this was because of light pollution, but as an eleven-year-old she had been certain it was just another piece of magic, like the moving staircases and talking portraits.

Whatever it was, it was not a phenomenon her mother would observe, not anymore. Even if Doris was in heaven — if there was at all a heaven — it would put her above the clouds and stars, wouldn’t it? Even if she were looking down at Lily right now, watching her quietly sob in this frosty courtyard, she could not see what Lily saw. 

_I can’t stand still,_ she reminded herself, but she was crying hard enough that she did not want to stand. She rested her head against the stone pillar beside her, wrapped her arms around her middle, and wept.

Crying was not so bad, because it gave you something to focus on. Lily paid careful attention to the hitch in her breathing, the damp trails tracing down her cheeks, the tremor in her shoulders. _I’m shaking,_ she realised, and not even because she was crying — perhaps the cold, perhaps a sudden wash of exhaustion. It was better to think about the physical symptoms and not the cause: that, despite the fact that Lily would go back to a room she shared with her friends, the terrible loneliness that held her now felt greater than any warmth she drew from them. 

But she was not so wrapped up in her tears that she missed the quiet footfalls in the corridor behind her. Her sobs quieted; Lily reached for her wand. It occurred to her, belatedly, that she hadn’t been alone in the castle for a long time, not since Gerard McIlhenny had been attacked.

She was alone now. 

Even when bad things happened to you, Lily reflected, you never did think there was more on the way. That seemed quite true of everyone, and not just a side effect of her optimism. In all her time as Severus’s friend, as someone open about her Muggle family, she had never found herself in _true_ danger. Though she gripped her wand as she looked over her shoulder, she knew nothing would happen to her.

Nothing real, anyway. There was disease, the invisible sort that had ravaged her mother, and there was magical pain — the sort that had left James bedridden for a day. Lily had seen both. She could not imagine either applying to her. 

It would be one of the Marauders, of course, having spotted her on their map. Lily was so certain — had so thoroughly convinced herself — that her spine relaxed; she scrubbed hastily at her wet cheeks. She could see it in her mind’s eye: James walking down the dark corridor, hands in his pockets, one corner of his mouth tipped into a half-smile. He would say something clever.

So when Lily spoke, she spoke as if to a friend. Wry, unafraid. “I know you’re there, you know.”

He stepped out of the shadows.

James didn’t knock; as he pushed the door open, he reflected that his mother would have had some choice words upon this mode of entry. He dismissed the thought when Marissa looked up and met his gaze.

“You aren’t supposed to be able to get in here,” she said.

He made a face. “I’m not that daft, I can answer a riddle.”

She rolled her eyes, but the line was enough to bring a faint smile to her face. “I meant _here_ as in my room.”

James put his hands in his pockets, surveying the Head Girl’s dorm as if he’d never seen it before — bronze-and-blue hangings that matched the common room below, a wide window with an indigo-cushioned seat letting in the late evening light, a four-poster bed noticeably bigger than the ones in the shared dorms. And Marissa, sitting on her bed cross-legged, a book in her lap.

“And yet, here I am,” he said, walking to the edge of the bed. “You can’t hide forever, you know. Nice as it is in here.”

Something like defiance flashed in her gaze. “I’m not hiding. I don’t care what gossip’s going around.”

James sighed. “Maybe you don’t care about gossip, but you care about whatshisname.”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Marissa said drily.

“You know, Caradick.”

“James, he’s my friend.” But Marissa was fighting a smile once more.

He sat down on the bed, half-facing her. “You’re not gonna know unless you ask him, you know. Or ask Mary, but I don’t think you want that.”

Marissa pushed the book away. “I thought you said she hadn’t written it.”

“It wasn’t her,” James confirmed. He was quite certain of that — not just because he liked Mary, not just because of her obvious distress that night in the Entrance Hall. He thought of Lily on the Astronomy Tower, setting fire to the diary. 

Marissa sighed, all the rigidity leaving her shoulders as she sat back against the pillows. “I’m sorry. I’ve been awful company lately, and you don’t need to hear me moping about my ex-boyfriend.”

James’s first instinct was to arch his brows. Marissa was not in the habit of referring to Dearborn as her ex; he was always her friend, her best mate. Was it reading too much into things, noticing that difference? He did not often second-guess; the very feeling it gave him was like an itch under his skin.

“Nah,” he said, successfully masking his doubts. “But the troops are missing their Head Girl. Rumour has it the Head Boy’s a prick, and there’s another section of the library that’s come to life.”

Marissa sat up. “James, you did _not.”_

He grinned. “Would it make you stop being a recluse?”

“Very funny.”

“I know. Look, if you don’t want to talk to Dearborn, then fuck him. But you’re not the subject of gossip, I promise. This lot’s got the attention span of a goldfish.”

She laughed and held out a hand. James took it, moving to sit beside her. 

“Besides,” he went on, “don’t you get hungry if you eat supper this early? I’m starving already.”

“You’re such a boy,” she told him. He shrugged, grinning still. “As for Doc, I—” A shadow of hesitation crossed her face. “You don’t think Mary...did what the book says she did.”

James hid his wince. “You know I don’t. She doesn’t need to get between two people to kiss a bloke, Marissa, you’ve seen her.”

“Thanks,” said Marissa drily.

“It’s the truth. You’ve got no clue if she snogged him at all, by the way. Just that stupid book, and I wouldn’t call it reliable.” 

She nodded, slowly and stiffly. James waited for her to say something — to agree with him, for he was certain he was right — but she stayed silent. He tried to consider what he’d do in her shoes, if he’d had an awkward thing with a best mate, but found he couldn’t imagine it whatsoever. 

But as black and white as it seemed to him, it was probably incredibly complicated to her. He could appreciate that, given his own circumstances. 

“Think of it this way,” James said, “you’re going to blow your N.E.W.T. examiners away next month and run off to the _Prophet,_ and you’ll be laughing about all this by then.” 

The words _next month_ tasted strange to him — how had the year come to a close already? The same surprise was written on Marissa’s expression; she exhaled a laugh.

“You’re right,” she allowed.

“And if the _Prophet_ decides Dickborn is worth their time—”

“James.”

“—if they do, they’ll stick him in the boring shit. Like the classifieds or something. People must have to put those together, yeah?”

Marissa smiled. “I reckon so.”

He nodded as if it were a done deal. “You’ll be the Ministry correspondent. He’ll be the classifieds bloke.”

Now she was laughing properly, and James felt as though he had done something right. Encouraged, he leaned back against the pillows and said, “We ought to manifest this.”

“Excuse me, manifest it?” Marissa spluttered.

He nodded solemnly. “Read it in _Witch Weekly_ once. It’s about making your dreams reality, or something.”

She turned to face him, her honey-blonde hair falling over one shoulder. “Right, then, how do we do it?”

“We, er, eat a celebratory Pumpkin Pasty…”

“Is that what it said in _Witch Weekly?”_

“Oh, yeah, definitely. And we drink hot chocolate.” 

As soon as he’d said it he wanted to take it back. Thus far Lily had been, pleasantly, a non-factor in this relationship — but somehow, she’d crept in, unbidden.

Marissa’s laughter turned into a sigh. “We’ll have to rule that out, then. I’m allergic.”

James frowned. “To chocolate?”

“To dairy. You don’t want to know what would happen if I drank a glass of milk, James.”

It felt like a sign. _You’ve escaped, idiot. Don’t fuck it up again._

“What a shame,” he said lightly. “It might take a few days, but I’ll come up with something.”

She smiled, and he noticed how very particular her smile was. Never close-lipped, always a broad grin. Even when she had something on her mind, Marissa could _smile._

“Well, while you think, I do have a private stash of Pumpkin Pasties,” she said, rising from the bed.

“Does it come with the dorm? Maybe there’s merit in being Head after all,” said James thoughtfully.

“You’ll have to wait and see,” Marissa said, rummaging through her things.

He snorted. “Yeah, right, Mar. Give me a realistic pep talk, yeah?”

She shot him a look over her shoulder. “Like the one in which I’m a Ministry correspondent, and Doc’s a classifieds bloke?”

“Exactly like that.”

James did not have the map to check. The mirror in his pocket was silent. He had nothing else to think of, and so he thought of nothing else as Marissa handed him a pasty, and he did not go to the window, which was a great many storeys above the courtyards and faced the Forbidden Forest, besides. 

Friday or no, James did not plan to stay late. With the upcoming Quidditch match, he’d scheduled an early practice for Saturday morning. As he made his way out, Marissa paused at her door to ask, “You _can_ get back without being seen, can’t you?”

James grinned. “Are you encouraging me to break the rules?”

“Seeing as you’re out of bed and it’s — seven minutes past curfew, you’ve already broken the rules,” she replied. “But if you want to earn yourself a detention ahead of the match…” A grin spread across her face. “Ravenclaw’s not complaining.”

“But you don’t want to know how I’m going to do it?” he prodded. It felt strange, not being pushed for more information.

Marissa shrugged. “I like a bit of mystique.”

He waited until he was in the corridor to throw the Invisibility Cloak around his shoulders. It was an easy jaunt around the castle to the Fat Lady’s portrait. She was already half-asleep when he whispered the password to her, and so James returned to the common room without being told off. He was looking forward to the warmth of his bed, and the bright spring morning he would shortly be flying around in.

What he did not expect, but got anyway, was the surprise of walking into the dormitory to find Remus and Peter awake and pale with anxiety. When he pushed the door open and yanked off the Cloak, they both startled where they sat, each upright on his own bed.

“What?” James said, because they were looking at him with obvious worry. “What’s happened?”

“Sirius,” said Peter. “We thought— He’s not with you?”

James shook his head. “I was with Marissa. I thought he was with _you.”_

“He was, but—”

“Did he give you the map?” Remus cut in.

He did not, as a rule, feel afraid. Instead James felt the intense rush of anticipation not unlike what he experienced before a Quidditch match — a torrent of adrenaline, a warning, a tightrope-walk over a pit of nerves. 

“No,” he said.

The last time he had run off with little explanation, the night had ended with Snape in the Hospital Wing and a bitter tension between the boys. James refused to believe this would be like that. He turned back towards the door.

“I’ll go find him.”

“You can’t go alone,” said Remus. “Not after—”

James felt the faintest phantom pang, which only served to irritate him. Mulciber was gone. He was _fine._

“Well, all right, then. Come on.”

The three of them went right back down the boys’ staircase, and out of the portrait hole once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't you love a good cliffhanger? >:) this chapter was written to "communication" by the cardigans, "yes" by coldplay, and "live" by billie marten.
> 
> thanks all of you for reading/kudosing/commenting! these past two weeks have been pretty hard for various life reasons and i've finally burned through my reserve chapters of this fic, which means (uh oh!) i'm writing against a weekly deadline. i will make a call as to whether or not this update schedule is still tenable — if i want to take next week off, or if i want to stagger updates for a bit — but if you want the latest info on that i will definitely discuss it on tumblr @thequibblah!
> 
> speaking of, a special thank you goes out to the people who have sent and continue to send me kind asks on there. <3
> 
> i'm all out of words, this chapter was SO much lol (i actually cut it off to have it end at this cliffhanger. oops?). but anyway, take care, hope everyone is doing okay!
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	26. A Radical Change of Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Sirius is being mean to Lily because he thinks James needs to get over her (it makes sense in his head); Lily argues with him many times but thinks he's sort of justified because she drunkenly kissed James and cheated on her boyfriend (she didn't). James doesn't know any of this. Lily breaks up with said boyfriend, for reasons only somewhat related to the not-kiss. Immediately after, she runs into a familiar face in a courtyard...
> 
> NOW: Continuing on from last time's cliffhanger—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for bearing with me on this brief hiatus! I am so glad to be back and I hope you guys enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it (in the past 24 hours, I won't lie it was chaotic before that). Reviews, kudos, anons on tumblr are all appreciated very much.

_i. Too Young to Burn_

Sirius stuffed the map into his pocket as he rounded the corner, glancing at his wristwatch to confirm the time. He was still well within his rights to roam the castle — curfew was close, but not so close that he couldn’t get back to Gryffindor Tower before someone caught him.

It was grating, in and of itself, to have to worry about curfew. He missed being able to wander Hogwarts without worrying. And his restriction was his friends’ too; every plan came with an unspoken obstacle they’d have to surmount. _Sirius can’t do it, so who will?_ The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

But that wasn’t what he was here for.

“Oi, McKinnon,” he called, his voice echoing through the empty corridor.

Marlene, who had been walking away from him, stopped and whirled around. “Oh, it’s just you. What’re you doing out of bed?”

He did not ask to walk with her, nor did she offer. But she waited for him to catch up and then continued her leisurely stroll.

“What’re you doing patrolling alone?” Sirius countered. “I thought you lot worked in pairs.”

“Pairs for parts of the castle,” she said. “Alice is circling the dungeons. _Not_ that you need to know how our patrols work. And you haven’t answered my question.”

“You know, any scummy Slytherin could’ve crept up behind you just now.”

Marlene rolled her eyes. “I’m in my second year of Auror training, Black. I do think I could take a sixteen-year-old.”

“Auror training. Not Hit Wizard training,” said Sirius.

She shrugged. “Yeah, and?”

“Well, why’d you go one way and not the other?”

Marlene sighed, looking down at the flagstone floor. “Da was scared I’d drop out right after O.W.L.s if I had that option — Hit Wizards don’t need N.E.W.T.s, you know.” 

Sirius frowned. Thorpe hadn’t mentioned this distinction, but that didn’t surprise him. 

“That’s not really an answer,” he said. “Unless, you’re saying you did it because your dad wanted you to.”

“I did, a little bit. Once you’re in training you can always change your mind.” She smirked. “If you fail out, for instance.”

“But you’re not _planning_ on failing.”

She made a sound of impatience. “Well, of course not! I’ve come this far, haven’t I?” 

They rounded a corner into another shadowed, empty corridor. 

“Now that I’ve answered your questions,” Marlene said, “you’ll need to tell me why you’re asking.”

Sirius shrugged. “Just thinking.” The words came out as a vague mumble. 

She gave him a look that was far too knowing, with a sideways smile. “You’d make a half-decent one, someday.”

“Someday.” He laughed. “High praise.”

“Just being honest. You can’t be a headcase in the DMLE.”

“How’d they let you in?” he said with complete seriousness.

She shoved him.

“Here I was trying to be nice,” Marlene said. “Well? Who’s been putting ideas in your head?” A look of suspicion came over her. “Not my da?”

He made a face. “I met your dad for about five seconds at Christmas. We’re not pen pals.”

Marlene looked very relieved at that. “So, then who?”

Birds were so dogged. Sirius regretted bringing it up in the first place. “Thorpe.”

“Oh, isn’t she fantastic! She’s had a really cool career, you know. I wish I’d had her as a Defence teacher.” 

“You sound like Dorcas,” Sirius grumbled. 

She snorted. “Sorry someone’s giving you good advice for a change, Black.”

He jerked his head up to look at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Marlene met his gaze without flinching. “What d’you think?”

Restlessness wasn’t worth having this conversation, he decided. He didn’t know Marlene _that_ well. Just the thought that she might discuss his private business — his worthless family — with others— He could picture it now, Marlene and her grizzled Hit Wizard father and all the other McKinnon children, seated at the dining table and chatting about the Blacks. She didn’t know anything about him. 

“Right,” he said shortly, stopping and backing away. “Enjoy your night.”

Marlene seemed to realise — belatedly — that she’d touched a nerve. Instead of apologising, though, her expression hardened. 

“Be sure you get back before curfew,” was all she said as she walked away.

Sirius scowled. Everyone thought he needed a babysitter, apparently. He decided, for that very reason, that he would walk the considerable distance back to Gryffindor Tower without looking at the map. He didn’t need to shrink around corners. 

“Fuck curfew, and fuck Hit Wizards,” he muttered under his breath. There was no one around to disagree with him.

“I know you’re there, you know,” said Lily, watching the shadow advance. She had already hastily scrubbed at her cheeks, but the newcomer would probably have noticed she’d been crying. That would be embarrassing to explain. 

There was enough moonlight creeping past the edge of the courtyard and into the corridor that Lily could see, at last, who the person was. She noticed his hands first: pale, long-fingered, still at his sides — no wand in sight. But his left hand twitched towards his pocket. She tightened her grip on her own wand. She knew it was not Sirius.

“Am I disturbing you?” Alec Rosier’s voice was perfectly mild — flat, even, as though Lily’s cares and disturbances were far, far beneath him.

That _was_ probably what he thought. 

She regretted the friendliness in her own tone, though she’d spoken without knowing who he was. One small, panicked part of her brain was trying to think of the best way to leave the courtyard. If she ran straight ahead she’d crash right into him. But if she ran down the corridor or through the courtyard itself, she’d be an easy target… Lily had never felt so trapped in open air.

 _Relax,_ she told herself. He couldn’t hurt her. He _couldn’t._

“I prefer solitude,” Lily replied, trying valiantly not to think of the attacks and the lurid messages that accompanied them.

But he couldn’t take her alone. He _wouldn’t,_ even. Rosier had a tendency only to fight in battles that he was guaranteed to win. 

“So do I,” said Rosier.

 _Then leave me alone,_ Lily almost said. But she managed to bite the words back. She just shrugged instead, and turned away from him back to the night sky. Her heartbeat had picked up. It crashed so frantically against her ribcage, it was a wonder it didn’t physically pain her. It was a wonder Rosier couldn’t hear it from where he stood.

The silence stretched on between them, until—

“Insolent, aren’t you?” he said, a new edge in his voice.

Lily tensed. She’d miscalculated, it seemed. Apparently not treating him with deference made him angry. _Well, good,_ she thought furiously. The thought of doing otherwise made _her_ sick. 

“Did you expect me to bow?” she said, still staring at the stars.

He laughed sharply, humourlessly. “I can’t decide if your stupidity comes from being a Gryffindor, or being a Mudblood.”

The word ought to have had little power over her now — after Severus had thrown it at her, how could any other time be worse? But she still flinched when she heard it. She hoped Rosier hadn’t noticed her reaction, and compensated with even more bravado than before.

“A healthy mix, I reckon.”

Rosier made a noise of disgust. Lily turned, at last, to look at him again. “Am I _disturbing_ you?” she said coldly.

They seemed to have arrived at a stalemate. She was quite certain now that he would not hurt her, and the certainty made her both satisfied and angry. Lily looked at her watch. It was past curfew.

“You’ll get in trouble if you’re caught out of bed. You should go. Anyway, you only attack in packs, don’t you, when a Muggle-born student’s back is turned?”

Wind whistled through the courtyard, turning flute-like and high, followed by the susurrus of whispering trees from the nearby forest. 

“You know as well as I do that was Mulciber,” Rosier said. If she’d hoped to ruffle him, she had failed. He looked as though he’d gained composure at the insinuation.

“You know as well as I do that Mulciber couldn’t plan something like that without someone holding his wand arm steady.”

His dark eyes glittered; _there_ was the malice she’d been looking for.

“You think you know so much,” he said softly. “I look forward to proving you wrong.”

Lily smiled. “Try me.”

A flash of light, the white-hot smell of magic. Then, quiet.

On the third floor Sirius almost walked into a minor battle. 

Peeves was hanging from the ceiling, upside-down, a sack of what looked like Dungbombs clutched in one fist. Possibly the Dungbombs that the Marauders had given him, when they had used him as a distraction back in March.

The past really did come back to bite you, Sirius thought.

He had clearly not been paying enough attention to his surroundings, if he’d missed Peeves’s cackling and — far below him — Mrs. Norris’s hissing and yowling. It was only a matter of time before Filch came after her, and he, Sirius, had no Cloak to conceal himself with. The closest shortcut was just past the poltergeist. Was it worth the risk?

Of all the people to think of in this moment, Sirius remembered Lily bloody Evans. _Remus and Peter and James would be cut-up if you got expelled,_ she’d said. That was true. It was as good a reason as any to pause and check the map instead of surging on blindly. He rolled his eyes — at himself or an imaginary Lily, he wasn’t sure — and ducked back to safety, digging the parchment out of a pocket.

“I solemnly swear I’m up to no good,” he muttered, and the map came to life. Filch was hurrying towards Peeves, blocking off the way to Gryffindor Tower. Sirius could wait and sneak around them once the coast had cleared, but who knew how long that would take? He made a noise of annoyance. He hadn’t even _wanted_ to be out so late. 

He could go back, find Marlene, and explain his problem. She’d walk him back to the common room. But Sirius did not want to confront the tension in the air he’d left between them — nor did he want to have another conversation about his career goals or lack thereof. 

He scanned the map. If he went back down a floor — avoided the patrolling prefects — then came back up again, he might manage to— He stopped short. The courtyard — the far one — was not empty. Sirius was familiar with it, because its back gate led onto the grounds and had often served as a way for the Marauders to return to the castle on full moon nights. And it was not empty, because one dot in it was marked _Lily Evans_ and another nearby was _Alec Rosier._

He threw his head back with a silent groan. He couldn’t very well go back to Fat Lady _now._ But he also had no desire to get himself expelled for Lily _bloody_ Evans.

Wishing he had never opened the map in the first place, Sirius began to retrace his steps. 

It took a few short minutes to find Marlene again — and it was fortuitous timing, because she had met up with Alice where their patrols overlapped. Sirius, who was jogging and making no effort to be quiet, rounded a corner to come face to face with the witches, both of whom had their wands at the ready. He put his hands up and skidded to a halt.

“Christ, it’s just me,” Sirius said. “Come on, that prat Rosier is alone with a Muggleborn in the courtyard, and I don’t think they’re holding hands and making common cause.”

Alice said, “What?!” looking as though she didn’t quite believe him.

Marlene said, “Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” and marched off down the hall. 

The courtyard contained two bodies: one standing, one flat on its back. Sirius processed this before he processed anything else — stupid, really, rooted in place while Alice and Marlene rushed over. Alice went to the prone body. Marlene seized the upright one.

Sound came rushing back.

“—my fault, honestly,” Lily Evans was saying, ostensibly _to_ Marlene, though she wasn’t looking at the other witch. She was looking down at the body.

Surely not a _dead_ body? Sirius startled at the thought, and hurried forward.

“He went for his wand, and I suppose I’m jumpy, with all the—the attacks, and things—”

The _he_ in question, Sirius saw, was none other than Alec Rosier. 

“No way,” he said loudly.

All three witches looked at him like they’d forgotten he was there.

“No way?” Marlene repeated.

But Sirius was looking at Lily. “You just, you just hexed him?”

She cocked her head. “Just Stunned.”

“Well, did he try anything!”

Alice gave him a quelling look. “Black, could you fetch Professor McGonagall?” she said in a deceptively calm voice. It was phrased as a request, but he did not think it was one. 

He ignored it.

Sirius marched up to Lily and said, again, “Did he try anything?”

Her face was a calm mask, but it flickered just then — a tremble in the grim line of her mouth.

“I’m well, thank you for asking,” Lily muttered. “He didn’t try anything. So, you know, you’ll have to catch him in the act the next time he has a go at a Muggleborn.”

Sirius scoffed. “Did you provoke him?”

Her green eyes flashed. “Did _I_ provoke _him?”_ She looked as though she was about to shout at him, or take a swing. Sirius widened his stance without thinking about it.

“Enough,” Marlene said sharply, putting herself between the two of them. “Christ in a handbag. _We’re_ going to McGonagall.”

She had Lily by the elbow, and began steering her out of the courtyard. On her way she grabbed Sirius by the arm too; he made a loud noise of complaint and shook her off, but followed.

“You snap at each other once,” Marlene said, “and I will bloody well will Silence you both the rest of the way.”

There was already a fire in the Transfiguration teacher’s office. Marlene shunted Sirius in first, and when McGonagall whirled around to face him, her face went from average-severe — not unusual for her — to perfectly cold. 

“Black. I thought I had made myself clear what your circumstance—”

Sirius didn’t even get a chance to protest. Lily had already ducked out around Marlene and darted towards McGonagall’s desk. 

“He didn’t do anything, Professor,” she said, the picture of earnestness.

Sirius knew she was defending him, but he was disinclined to feel grateful. Marlene or someone would have spoken up eventually. 

McGonagall’s eyebrows rose. “Evans. Sit.”

“Can _I_ sit, Professor?” Sirius drawled.

Her hawk-like gaze fell upon him. _“Sit.”_

Marlene stood at their shoulders, one hand on each chair. 

“Can you tell me why you’re out of bed, the both of you?” McGonagall said.

“I’m just a concerned citizen,” said Sirius.

“Black. Not you.”

He gave her a deeply affronted look.

Evans jumped in to fill the silence. “I was on the way back to Gryffindor Tower, and I stopped in the courtyard. I must’ve lost track of time, I hadn’t realised it was past curfew.”

She stopped there, as if that was the end of that.

“And then you Stunned Alec Rosier,” Sirius said.

Both McGonagall and Lily gave him pointed looks. He put his hands up in surrender. “She was dawdling. You always tell me not to dawdle, Professor.”

“I’m so reassured to know that you listen to what I say and remember it, Black, only to choose not to act upon it,” McGonagall said drily. Sirius shrugged. She turned her gaze back upon Lily. “Did you Stun Rosier, Miss Evans?”

She nodded. “I did. He startled me.”

“He said something to her,” Sirius cut in.

Once again they both looked at him. Marlene’s hand inched closer to his shoulder. He had a feeling she was doing all she could to resist clamping onto him to indicate he should be silent.

“Nevertheless,” McGonagall said, “speech should not compel you to Stun anyone—”

Sirius blinked. He had been trying to rile up Evans, and not McGonagall, but he couldn’t stay quiet here. 

“Come off it—” he looked incredulously between them “—you don’t even know what he said! What was she supposed to do, just sit there and take it—”

“What _did_ he say, then?” McGonagall folded her hands on the desk, looking at him expectantly.

Sirius deflated. “Well— I don’t know, exactly—”

“He didn’t say anything,” Lily said. “He just startled me. I’m sorry, I really am, and I don’t think he was hurt—”

“Alice is with him,” Marlene interjected. 

“—but I’ll accept any punishment you see fit to give me—” Lily went on.

Sirius rolled his eyes.

“Detention,” said McGonagall crisply. “With me, tomorrow, one o’clock. No Hogsmeade trip next week. And forty points from Gryffindor — _no one_ should be duelling in the halls.”

Lily slumped a little, but nodded. Sirius made as if to stand up. 

“Right, so we’re headed to bed now, yeah?”

“Wait. How did you know?” Marlene said.

“What?” 

“How did you know, that Rosier was with Lily in the courtyard?”

All three of them were watching him once more, but there was no trace of curiosity on Lily’s face. Only resolution. She knew, he remembered, thanks to that day in February.

He shrugged and skirted the chair so he was no longer boxed in. “Lucky guess.”

Only then did Sirius consider what might have happened if he hadn’t brought Marlene and Alice to the courtyard. Lily might’ve walked off with Rosier still Stunned, with no one the wiser.

He dismissed that possibility out of hand. No chance she wouldn’t be overcome with remorse, or something, and confess her misdeeds. But at least in that scenario, he wouldn’t have had to sit through this conversation. 

Of course, if he was thinking _possibility,_ there was also a world in which Rosier struck first, and Sirius did not stop to check the map, and Lily Evans was the next person found bleeding in a corridor. It was a sobering thought, not because of what it would mean, but because in that other world he, Sirius, would never have known. He could have stopped it, had he known, but he would _never know._ Did that sort of thing leave an unseen mark?

He was getting maudlin. It was time to return to Gryffindor Tower.

“I’ll walk you back,” Marlene said, brooking no argument. 

McGonagall gave each of the students one last stern look and dismissed them. The corridor was cold by comparison; Sirius winced, and he noticed Lily shiver. He did not remark upon it.

Marlene seemed to think they were being timed on their return, and kept up a marching pace. No matter how much Sirius tried to walk alongside her, he consistently fell behind. Finally he resigned himself to walking beside Lily instead. 

“You _were_ trying to provoke him,” he said in an undertone, his gaze trained straight ahead.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her glare at him.

“You’re determined to think the worst of me, aren’t you?” she said.

“You were trying to provoke him,” Sirius said again, “because you thought if he’d attacked you first he might be suspended, or expelled. Don’t deny it.”

Her outrage simmered down to mutiny; he knew at once that he’d guessed right. 

“And how would you know,” Lily muttered, a belated attempt to deny it.

Sirius did not answer, and they walked the rest of the way to the Fat Lady in silence. In truth he didn’t have to speak. He had an uncomfortable feeling she already knew how he’d known. 

It was what he would’ve done in her place.

* * *

_ii. Cloudbusting_

In a matter of hours, it seemed, the news was all over the school. Lily was quite certain some people know before they’d woken up — or, at least before _she_ had, which was less of an achievement considering she had tumbled out of bed on Saturday at the modest hour of ten o’clock.

“Your exploits have tired you out, have they?” said Germaine, who was flushed from a shower and currently making her messy bed, which meant she’d just returned from Quidditch.

Lily rolled onto her other side and groaned. “It wasn’t that dramatic.”

“It was dramatic when you told us last night, and let me tell you, it’s become more dramatic overnight.”

Despite the empty otherworldliness of the courtyard, it had not been all that late when Lily and Sirius had been dumped back into the Gryffindor common room. The experience was like the breaking of a spell. Suddenly, surrounded by her housemates — reading, pretending to study, asleep over their books, shouting as they played Gobstones — she couldn’t believe she had Stunned Alec Rosier just minutes before. 

She couldn’t believe Sirius Black had been right about her — that some part of her had goaded Rosier on, in hopes that he _would_ lash out and then she would have done something. She would finally have a concrete reason to point the finger at him, and never mind that she’d carry some of the blame for it. If there was one less bigot at Hogwarts, what did it all matter?

Morality did not seem so straightforward anymore. 

“Are people...talking about it?” Lily said now, hesitant. 

Germaine fluffed her pillow and gave Lily a look. “What do you think?”

“But who _told?”_ She herself had only mentioned it to Doe, Mary, and Germaine, and she didn’t think Sirius had spilled the beans to the whole world either.

“Dunno. Maybe someone overheard you last night.” Germaine finished with her bed and promptly flopped onto it. 

Lily groaned once more. “What are they saying?” She thought she’d rather not know, but better to be prepared for the scene that would await her in the Great Hall.

“Oh, does it matter?” Germaine said, which struck Lily as a transparent evasion tactic.

“Come on. Tell me.”

Germaine sighed. “Well, I heard some people saying you punched him.”

“Punched him!” Lily repeated, both aghast and delighted. She curled her right hand into a fist and examined her own knuckles, as if expecting to see some evidence of this rumour. “Does anyone think I’m capable of throwing punches?”

“Apparently.”

“Well...good! I’ll get a lot less cheek when I’m patrolling.” Her wryness sounded a touch forced to her own ears. McGonagall hadn’t lectured her last night, but perhaps the proper talk was coming this afternoon, when she’d be serving her detention. 

And more to the point, she wasn’t used to being a topic of discussion. Lily didn’t think there was much to gossip about when it came to her, and she liked it that way. In fact, the last time she had worried about the Hogwarts rumour mill had been...after the Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up at the memory. 

Abruptly she pushed back the covers and stood, stretching. She could not dwell upon that memory, nor could she wallow in her worst imaginings of what people were saying about her. “Well, sticks and stones may break my bones—”

“Or punches,” Germaine suggested unhelpfully. 

Lily threw a pillow at her.

In fifteen minutes, Lily emerged from the bathroom in a much better mood. Her hair was behaving today, so she decided to wear it loose, brushing it until it gleamed. As she rummaged through her dresser, she mentally congratulated herself on doing quite well, all things considered. There was no sign of an imminent breakdown about her encounter with Rosier. And, really, for a newly-single girl—

She froze. Newly-single. She was single.

“What’s the matter?” Germaine said, still sitting on her bed in the exact same position she’d been in before Lily had stepped out of the room.

She blinked, trying to remain calm. “I...I broke up with Dex. Merlin, I forgot to tell you, I broke up with Dex!”

Germaine scrambled upright, her eyes wide. “You what? How could you _forget?”_

“Well, I’d just run into Alec Rosier, hadn’t I!”

“Paracelsus on a pogo stick.” And then— “Mary’s gonna kill you.”

Lily huffed.

“I’m sorry,” said Germaine, looking unrepentant. “Are you all right? I mean, how’re you feeling about it?”

“I went through with it, so I’d better hope I feel all right about it,” Lily said tersely as she unearthed a pair of jeans.

There was a brief silence.

“Let’s try that again,” Germaine said. “Are you all right?”

Lily understood this was a chance to move on, instead of pausing to explain herself and apologise. Nevertheless, she said, “Sorry. That was rude. I think I’m fine — just, it’s been a long fourteen hours.” 

“Okay. I won’t push you, but you know my offer stands.” Germaine hopped off the bed. “I will, however, accompany you to breakfast. Which is over really soon, by the way.”

Lily’s stomach made a sound of protest, and she hurriedly got dressed. Mary and Dorcas were studying in the common room, so they all paused for a moment to collect them. As her friends packed up their things, Lily glanced over her shoulder at the rest of the common room, uneasy with the feeling of being watched. A group of third years had fallen silent at her entrance. They huddled together, whispering, as she looked in another direction. 

Doe noticed her apprehension too. She said, drily, “Looks like Mary isn’t the centre of attention anymore.”

“My hero,” said Mary, giving Lily a gentle nudge. “Come on, we’ll defend you from the slanderers.”

Unlike with Mary’s recent brush with the Hogwarts rumour mill, however, there didn’t seem to be many slanderers. Only observers; as they trekked to the Great Hall, students — particularly younger ones — went quiet until they had passed, watching with wide eyes. Lily hoped, at least, that they were not fearful eyes. 

“They’re not afraid, are they?” murmured Doe as they descended the stairs to the Entrance Hall. A pair of first years had just squeaked in alarm at the sight of them and all but run away. 

“I don’t know what there is to be afraid of,” said Lily, exasperated. “It’s not as though I’d hex just anyone — I’ve never indicated, up until now, that I was inclined to hex anyone at all—”

“Mental break, wasn't it, Evans?” Thalia Greengrass said loudly. To the younger students passing in and out of the Great Hall, she said, “Watch your back, or Evans might take you for a _ghostie_ and hex you to oblivion.” Beside her, Anthony Avery snickered. 

Lily stiffened at the sight of them, but her tone was even when she spoke. “Pick one, Greengrass — either I’m too stupid for magic, or too dangerous to be around. You can’t have it both ways.”

“Bitch,” added Mary, which Lily thought was a net neutral on helpfulness in this situation.

“Scared of the dark, are you?” Avery said, still laughing ghoulishly. “Well, I’d be careful if I were you, Mu—”

Fast as lightning, she had her wand trained squarely at him. Avery stopped laughing.

“I’m a quick draw,” Lily said, as calmly as if they were discussing the weather. “Your mate learned that the hard way. I’m a firm believer in education, though, so I don’t mind teaching you lot again.” She stowed her wand away once more. “Just let me know when.”

Mary, Germaine, and Doe did a very poor job of concealing their laughter, and the girls at last entered the Great Hall. 

“Is this a thing?” Germaine wanted to know. “You drop your boyfriend, you suddenly become a crusader?”

“Oh, my brother’s read those comics,” said Mary knowingly. 

“You drop your what?” said Doe.

Lily flushed, though she had known this moment would come sooner rather than later. “Can we sit down, at least, before the interrogation?”

But the moment of peace she’d been looking for was not to be. No sooner had the girls found a quiet corner of the Gryffindor table than Dex, of all people, detached himself from his mates and came to hover opposite Lily.

“A word?” he said.

Lily glanced between her friends pointedly. “Dex, I really—”

“She’s busy,” said Germaine, picking up the hint.

“Very. First meal of the day, so important, you know—” said Mary.

“—besides, we’re doing the crossword,” Doe finished.

“You hate the crossword,” Mary stage-whispered.

“—really would like to enjoy my breakfast,” Lily said. “Can’t it wait?”

He seemed ready to concede, backing away, but at the last minute changed his mind and approached the table once more. “I don’t think it can. I heard what happened with Rosier…”

“Which version?” Lily hoped the story hadn’t become more outlandish since Germaine had been at Quidditch.

Dex frowned. “The one where you Stunned him. That _is_ what happened, isn’t it?”

She sighed, checking around herself to see if anyone was listening in — then remembering that she was confirming the truth, after all, and that was the most effective way to stop all the stories. 

“Yes, that’s what happened.”

His expression twisted into sympathy. “I understand now.” He sat down next to a surprised Mary, who muttered _oh, make yourself at home._

“Understand what?” said Lily, uncertain. 

Both Germaine and Doe were frozen in the middle of filling their plates; Mary looked to be doing her best to pretend Dex wasn’t beside her. Lily elected to follow her unruffled lead, and reached for a pear. It was chill enough to the touch that it would hurt to eat. Frowning, she cupped it in one hand and reached for a milk pitcher with the other, topping off her teacup to just the right shade of warm brown.

“Understand why you did it,” Dex said earnestly, leaning over the table.

Lily’s hand stilled, the sugar spoon poised over her cup. “Oh. I— I’m glad, then. That’s a relief, you know. Some moments I’m hardly sure why I did it myself—”

She laughed a little, nervous without knowing why. But there was nothing to be nervous about. She was just taken aback. Dex’s measured opinions about the wizarding world seemed more the result of upbringing and inexperience than ill will, but Lily had not expected a radical change of heart.

At least, not overnight, right after she’d broken up with him.

“It’s all right to be confused,” Dex said. 

He reached out to cover her hand with his, and Lily promptly sloshed her tea on both of them. Muttering apologies, she mopped up the mess with her napkin. The tea had refilled itself by the time she’d turned back to it. Heat rose to her cheeks.

“I don’t know if I’d say _confused,_ exactly,” she began.

Someone’s foot connected sharply with her shin.

“Ouch!” Lily said, reaching down to rub the spot through her jeans. “Don’t swing your legs, Mare!”

“Oh, was that you?” Mary said faux-sweetly. 

Lily made a face and sipped her tea. Dex nodded at her to go on, which flustered her once more. She had anticipated a postmortem of the previous night with McGonagall, not her freshly-made ex.

“Yes, what was I saying… I don’t know if I’d say confused. Mostly afraid—” Dex nodded again “—and angry, _definitely_ angry—” his enthusiasm dimmed “—but I was frustrated more than anything. I had to do something, after all.”

Mary kicked her again.

Lily yelped and glared at her. “Would you _stop that?”_

“Jesus _Christ,”_ said Mary, shaking her head and looking down at her eggs instead of explaining.

But Lily didn’t have time to consider her confusing behaviour. Dex was still watching her, looking properly worried now.

“Why were you frustrated?”

She laughed a little. “I don’t know, isn’t everyone frustrated by the state of things?”

He straightened. “Why’s it everyone’s business?”

It took Lily a moment to frame a response. “Well, we all live in this world, don’t we? It’s our responsibility to address its problems.”

Dex shook his head. “What on earth do you mean, the world and its problems? What are you talking about?”

“What are _you_ talking about?” But as soon as she’d asked the question, Lily realised she already knew the answer. Dex had been talking about _them._ Their relationship. And she had been busy dissecting her encounter with Rosier.

“I’m saying I understand why— why you said what you did to me, last night,” Dex said hurriedly. “You were scared, and confused, and I know it’s been a really difficult time for you—”

Lily was already shaking her head, a high-pitched panic filling her until she could not shape the words it would take to get him to _stop, right now._

“—I want you to know it’s okay,” he went on. “We can move right past it — pretend it never happened, even—”

Dorcas set down her spoon with a clink. “This is excruciating. Dex, she’s not taking you back. Please, walk away before things get even more embarrassing.”

“Sorry,” Lily mumbled. “I really am. And please — it’s best if you don’t get your hopes up.”

He looked as though he’d taken a wrecking ball to the gut. Lily cringed at the sight of it. Oh, why had he come and forced her to break up with him all over again?

“But...you were acting irrationally,” said Dex faintly. “You — _Stunned_ Rosier.”

“Not as out of character as you’d think,” Germaine said cheerfully. “Go on, then.”

Dex looked rather as if Lily had Stunned _him._ But he finally rose from the bench and returned to the Hufflepuff table, his ears bright-red with humiliation. The moment he was out of earshot, Lily groaned and put her face in hands. 

“Darling, the next time I kick you under the table, don’t announce it to everyone present,” Mary said. “Put that big brain of yours to use.”

“I didn’t think he’d— _God!”_ said Lily through her fingers.

“Clearly,” Germaine said. “Eat your pear.”

With another, quieter groan, Lily picked up the pear and bit into it, wondering if the day held more embarrassments still.

* * *

_Interlude: Topsy-Turvy_

“I’m only saying, it’s been ages since we’ve done something really stupid,” Sirius was saying as the boys dug into their lunches.

“Don’t,” said Remus, “behave as though what Lily did wasn’t incredibly dangerous.” 

He and Peter exchanged a look that Sirius mercifully missed. Both of them were thinking the same thing: that it was a relief Sirius hadn’t been the one throwing around Stunning Spells, _and_ that it was a relief the three of them had only found Peeves and Filch in their hunt for their friend the previous night. They didn’t want to imagine what stupid ideas Rosier and Lily's encounter might have inspired in James. 

The boy in question was uncharacteristically subdued, his gaze flickering over to the Ravenclaw table every so often. 

“Have you spoken to Lily about it yet?” said Remus.

James looked up. “Huh? What? Who— No.”

“Well, are you going to?” said Peter.

He ignored this. “I’m thinking of something stupid.”

“Why are you looking at Bertram Aubrey?” Peter said.

Sirius barked out a laugh. _“He’s_ the stupid thing, Wormtail.”

Remus sighed. “Prongs, not at the table—”

But it was far too late. Just as McGonagall was striding past them, on her way out of the Great Hall, James gave a tidy flick of his wrist and Bertram Aubrey’s hair promptly turned a violent shade of purple. McGonagall ground to a halt. She looked at James, who appeared wholly unrepentant. Then she looked at Bertram Aubrey, waving her wand at him to reverse the spell.

“Potter, come with me,” she said, incredibly weary.

“Yes, I think that’s a good idea, Professor,” James said, bouncing to his feet. The pair walked out of the hall with no further discussion.

Remus sighed again. “What an idiot.”

“Idiot?” Sirius scoffed, looking at James’s retreating back with narrowed eyes. “He’s fucking devious. _We’re_ the idiots. He’s got a whole detention with Evans now, hasn’t he?”

Peter’s jaw dropped. “Wait, you don’t think...he planned that?”

Sirius shrugged in a way that suggested that was _exactly_ what he thought.

“Who’s got the map?”

“He has,” Remus said, his own weariness matching McGonagall’s.

“We can follow them, see where the detention is—”

“I’m hungry,” said Remus, spearing a chunk of parsnip and eating it slowly and pointedly. “I want to enjoy my lunch. I do _not_ want to crash a detention. I’ve gone quite a while without them now, and I’m savouring my time off before we do something even more ridiculous than demonstrating non-verbal Transfiguration on Bertram Aubrey in the middle of lunchtime.”

Peter’s shoulders sagged. “Padfoot?” he prompted.

Sirius huffed, pushing his food around. “Whatever,” he said sullenly. “It’s one stupid detention.”

“You don’t think he’s realised, do you?” Peter’s voice was barely above a whisper now, as though James was liable to jump out from underneath the table.

Silence fell over all three of them.

“This was always a bad idea,” Remus said, still focused on his buttered parsnips.

* * *

_iii. Just A Little Bit Harder_

“—ought to be more careful this close to the last match of the season,” McGonagall was saying, her voice echoing through the otherwise empty corridor. 

Lily was leaning against the wall beside the door to her office; at the approaching footsteps, she straightened and tucked her hair behind her ears. It had been years since she’d served a detention, and though she did not regret what she’d done, she couldn’t bear to remember her Head of House’s tight-lipped disapproval. 

“If anyone else had seen you, they might have scheduled a detention for the day of the Quidditch match,” McGonagall continued. “And then what!”

She came into view at the end of the corridor with James a half-step behind her, looking impossibly pleased with himself. For her part, McGonagall seemed — not pleased, exactly, but more harried than actually _angry._

As McGonagall set to unlocking the door, Lily met James’s gaze behind her back, arching her brows curiously. James, unhelpfully, raised his own eyebrows.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Evans,” McGonagall said, pushing the door open at last and disappearing inside.

James unsuccessfully stifled a snort. _Sorry?_ he mouthed. Lily smothered her own smile, rolled her eyes at the mock-gallant flourish with which he gestured for her to enter, and stepped into the office. The fire was at a low crackle, enough to chase away any last remnants of spring chill. McGonagall had retreated behind her desk, and was rummaging through its drawers.

“Come in, come in, sit—” the professor said with some impatience, glancing up at them for long enough to transform a tall bookshelf into a table of reasonable height. Two chairs arranged themselves at opposite ends of the newly-created desk.

James didn’t need to be told twice; he sauntered over to the table, peering at its sides as if trying to identify the seams of McGonagall’s spell. He made a small noise of satisfaction, sliding back a panel to reveal the books that had been on the shelf before. Lily moved more slowly; McGonagall was levitating paperwork over to the table by the time she inched back a chair and dropped into it.

No matter how long she spent at Hogwarts, no matter how desensitised she felt to the whimsical unreality of magic, there was always something new. Or, in this case, something old. Lily was struck again by how casually and simply Professor McGonagall wielded her magic. Its novelty came from its normalcy.

Perhaps that was what came of a life immersed in magic, both the practice and the study of it. Perhaps it ceased to be wondrous — or perhaps it became no more mundane than the everyday miracles of life itself. Was that what she would look like, decades from now, wherever the future took her?

“Madam Pince faces a deluge of Restricted Section permission slips around exam time, and is concerned that some students might take advantage of the confusion to sneak in,” McGonagall said. “Sort out the requests by whether they are outstanding or have been fulfilled, and by section. I think—” she glanced at her watch “—two hours should do.”

“Two hours!” James said. “Come on, Professor, it was only a—”

“Harmless prank?” said McGonagall sternly. “Better two hours now than two hours when you should be winning us the Quidditch Cup!”

Lily laughed. Both of them turned to look at her. Belatedly she remembered that her punishment was well-deserved — lenient, even — and that she ought to be making every effort to seem contrite. 

“Sorry,” she said hastily. “Sorry, about yesterday as well, Professor.”

James was watching her with great interest now. Lily supposed she was about to face another slew of questions, and steeled herself for it. On the other hand, if anyone would be sympathetic…

“Yes, you’ve already apologised,” McGonagall said. She came to the table’s edge, staring down her nose at Lily. It was all she could do to not shrink away. In a surprisingly gentle voice, she said, “If you had hurt him badly, you know what would have happened, don’t you?”

Lily blinked. “I—”

“The Rosiers have their influence,” James supplied. “Leave a lasting mark on their dear boy and they’d be baying for your blood. So, expulsion, which means they snap your wand—” Lily went cold “—and you’re banned from practising magic. Ever. Just ask Hagrid.”

“That’s quite enough, Potter,” McGonagall said, glancing briefly heavenward. “However, he’s not too far off the mark.”

“I didn’t think—” Lily stopped. “I _didn’t_ think.” Her wand felt like a lead weight in her pocket. She imagined it being taken from her, imagined being sent back to Petunia and having to muddle through Muggle school, years behind everyone else… And knowing all the while what she had been stripped of. 

McGonagall squeezed her shoulder; startled, Lily dragged her unfocused gaze to meet the professor’s.

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t fight,” McGonagall said, her voice low and urgent. Something akin to fury simmered in her gaze. “Remember the risk you bear, and remember that you are seventeen, Lily. Let those of us with less to lose act on your behalf for now.”

Lily was momentarily silent, mouth half-open. Her gaze flicked to James, whose expression was blank behind his spectacles. She wanted to pinch herself, to ask James if this was really happening. Was she reading too much meaning into those words — _for now_ — or was McGonagall trying to insinuate something? She couldn’t tell.

“I’d be happy to hex where you point me,” James said cheerfully, picking up the form nearest him.

McGonagall gave a long-suffering sigh, and the tension dissipated. “You’ll do nothing of the sort.” A pause. “Would either of you like a Cauldron Cake?”

For the second time in a matter of minutes, Lily was struck speechless. “Er,” she finally stammered, “that’s all right, I’m quite full from lunch.”

James appeared quite affronted by this offer, though Lily had no idea why. “I’ll take one, thanks.”

McGonagall set a Cauldron Cake down beside him. “For heaven’s sake, don’t get it on the permission forms. Pince will _not_ be happy.”

James looked as though he was considering it, now. Lily intervened before he could suggest as much. “We won’t, Professor.”

“I trust you can supervise yourselves?”

“Evans can supervise me,” James said, grinning.

McGonagall sighed once more and left, the door clicking shut behind her. Lily reached for a stack of forms, frowning down at them. At present she became aware that James was not working, but looking at her, his smile gone.

“What _were_ you thinking, anyway?” he said when she glanced up at him.

Lily huffed at his tone, scanning the first form. _Name: Priya Nair. Year: Fifth, Hufflepuff… Herbology… Rare and Rabid Carnivorous Plants, A Survey…_ Who needed a book like that? The form bore a little red stamp that signified it had been acknowledged by Pince, so that it could not be reused for entry into the Restricted Section.

“Going to read me the riot act, are you?” she said, refusing to meet his gaze again.

“I might!” James said. “And it feels fucking weird, this role reversal.” 

She relaxed a little. If he could joke, he wasn’t that angry. In looping cursive, _Agape Macnair, Third year, Slytherin… Defence Against the Dark Arts—_ Lily snorted and began a new pile. Why any thirteen-year-old needed access to the Restricted Section, she couldn’t have said, but who was she to prevent Agape from edification… With a name like that, she probably had to be quick on her feet. 

“Then we don’t have to do it. You can eat your Cauldron Cake, sort your forms, and get back to the rest of your Saturday afternoon,” Lily said briskly.

Above the next form she could see him narrowing his eyes at her.

“As if. You know, some people are saying you snapped, attacked him in some kind of frenzy—” 

She opened her mouth to refute this point, but James was already rolling his eyes, clearly unimpressed by it.

“—and what a fantastically stupid idea that is. If you intended to hex him into the next year, you’d have succeeded and you’d have been well in control of yourself.”

She swallowed, and had to reread the next form thrice before she could set it down again.

“So, I’ve got my own theories, but I reckon you were just about to tell me not to believe everything I hear, or to make assumptions.” James leaned across the table — Lily started — and dropped a form onto the Herbology pile. “Which is why I’m asking.”

She slapped another piece of parchment down. “I’m sick of feeling like my hands are tied,” she muttered. She wasn't sure why she was telling him when she had been reluctant to get into the details with her mates.

No, that wasn’t true. She knew why she wanted to tell him — because she was quite certain he’d agree, and maybe he would say a few things that were difficult to hear, but he would understand. He would accept without complaint whatever uncomfortable admission she made, just as he had over Easter with her angriest letters and her worst moments. 

But Easter made her think of the kiss.

She flushed and cleared her throat, ducking her head and sorting through a dozen more forms. James remained silent. Lily found she had more to say.

“I don’t see why it’s supposed to reassure me that he’s leaving Hogwarts soon. Because it doesn’t. I’m glad he won’t be around to curse children, but what’s stopping him from cursing them behind a mask?” 

The next words came before she could consider them: “Why am I here, and not out _there?”_ She pointed at the lone window in McGonagall’s office, which overlooked the Lake.

“You’re seventeen,” James said, studying her carefully.

“I’m of age,” Lily corrected. 

His jaw clenched. “Yeah? Old enough to be a martyr?” 

“Don’t get angry at me when you know I’m right!”

“I’m _thinking,_ unlike you,” James shot back. “I’m thinking of every eleven-year-old Muggle-born kid who’s going to see you as Head Girl next year—” she scoffed, but he only raised his voice “—and feel like they’re still safe and welcomed _here,_ at least.”

“What do you know about—”

“Being scared and eleven and not knowing anything about magic? No, you’re right.” He sat back, scowling at her. _“You_ tell me, Evans. If you started Hogwarts and heard about the girl who’d dropped out to get herself killed by Death Eaters, what would you think?”

She looked away, tight-lipped. It had taken some months, at least, for her beautiful illusion of Hogwarts to be disrupted by blood supremacy. But just a few weeks of feeling like she belonged — a term of reaching out for magic and holding on for dear life — and she’d known she could not be sent away from this world.

It had not been easy to have Petunia retreat from her, to realise the people she loved most would never perfectly understand her. But as Lily traced a hand over the table that had once been a bookshelf, she knew she would not have traded it away. Maybe it made her selfish. But didn’t the wide-eyed new students deserve to be selfish, for a little while?

“You’re awfully certain I’d die,” she said after another long silence.

James met her stare with an unreadable one of his own. The faintest line appeared between his brows, but she didn’t think he was angry. Not exactly. He studied her like she was a puzzle he couldn’t hope to decipher. And wasn't that ironic? It was _he_ who was unreadable.

“Not certain,” he said, his voice clipped. “Bloody hell, not at all.”

She had no idea what to say to that. Glad to have something else to focus on, she shuffled through more requests. _Mary Macdonald, Arithmancy… Frank Longbottom, Charms…_ How funny, that even the Aurors had to file formal requests with Pince. The librarian was a terrible stickler. 

Lily stiffened at another familiar name. _Alec Rosier, Defence Against the Dark Arts._ She stared at it, wishing the words could give her some kind of deeper understanding into their author. 

Were people like him only following what they had been raised with? But how could that be an excuse, when plenty of others — no matter their age — had unlearned what they had been taught? One had only to consider Sirius Black to refute that argument...although, had Sirius had an easier go of it, being Sorted into Gryffindor at a safe distance from the pureblood crowd? Well, no matter how many purebloods Slytherin had favoured, there was no chance his ambition outweighed his reckless daring… 

“You’re getting the star detention treatment, by the way,” said James. They were apparently going to pretend they hadn’t just been arguing.

They were good at pretending to forget, anyway. Lily flushed once more.

“She’s never once offered me a Cauldron Cake, not once in all my fifty-three.”

She looked up at him, incredulous. “You’ve had fifty-three detentions?”

“Fifty-three detentions with McGonagall,” he corrected.

Lily rolled her eyes. “Only you would tout that as an achievement, James.”

“Wrong. I’ll have you know it’s quite a fierce competition. Well — not so much now that Padfoot’s out of the running, and I’m competing with people who’ve left Hogwarts. Still, the all-time leader is Gertie Gallagher, 1841 to 1848.” He shook his head in admiration. “I’d have liked to meet Gertie.”

She was determined not to laugh. “How do you even know that?”

“Filch has a running tally, of course. It’s unfortunate, because it only serves as—”

“Encouragement,” Lily finished. “Of course.”

James grinned crookedly. “Of _course._ What’s your number, anyway? Three?”

“Why is that your guess?”

“You weren’t falling over yourself apologising, so I assume you’ve had a few before this one where you tried that.”

Lily scoffed, trying — unsuccessfully — to throw a form at him.

“Don’t get Cauldron Cakes on the requests, Evans,” James said very seriously. “Pince will _not_ be happy.”

“Oh, shut up. It’s just like you to treat this like a—a body count or something—” The protest was weak; Lily was trying not to laugh.

“I think it’s a damn sight better than a body count,” said James. “Why do they call it a body count, anyway? I know it’s supposed to be a joke, but equating your sexual partners with _corpses_ is telling, isn’t it?”

“Forget I said anything, Merlin.”

“No, no, c’mon—” He screwed up his face. “Five. This is your fifth, I think. Nice round number.”

Lily sighed, more disappointed than she should have been that he'd guessed so easily. “Fine. You’re right.”

“Ahhh,” he said. “Music to my ears. Go on, then, list them off.”

“Oh, all right. First year, I was talking too much in Astronomy and did not shut up despite repeated requests to do so—” 

James was already laughing. Lily lost her fight to keep a straight face.

“—in second year, I told Thalia Greengrass she reminded me of a Hinkypunk, and then explained to Professor McIntyre all the ways in which she resembled one—”

James laughed even harder.

“—and, oh, I really do feel bad about this one, I thought someone was aiming a tripping jinx at me in fourth year, so I tried to push out of the way, but the corridor was really full and I caused a dramatic domino effect—”

James managed to regain control of his voice long enough to say, “Oh, God, how could I forget the great third-floor massacre of 1974?”

“That one earned me two detentions,” she said, sighing. “Deservedly so, I think. I ought to have just cast a Shield Charm instead of losing my head and starting a stampede.”

He snorted. _“Deservedly so,_ come off it, you don’t have to pretend to be that much of a goody two-shoes.”

Despite herself, Lily was still giggling. “It's not a joke. A second year skinned both of his knees, it was really sad—”

“His fault for being so small.”

She reached across the table and swatted him with a form, and in the process sent all of their stacks into disarray. They swore in unison, hurriedly scrambling for the parchment that had fluttered off the table— on her hands and knees, Lily grabbed blindly at the papers, so intent on them that she did not see James crawling towards her until their heads knocked together.

Lily sat back with an _oof,_ one hand pressed automatically to her forehead. She blinked away the momentary dizziness; James was doing the same, wincing, a few feet from her.

“Merlin, I’m sorry, I should’ve looked,” Lily said, testing the sore spot with her fingers. It throbbed, but not so badly that either of them, she thought, were seriously hurt.

“No, that’s all right,” James said, letting out a breath.

She reached for him automatically but dropped her hand, realising that might be a step too far. “Does it hurt very badly?”

“Prognosis is grim, but I think I’ll live.” He gave her a smile. 

Lily bundled together as many forms as she could reach. “Sorry, we’ll have to start all over—”

“—relax, it’s not like it’s hard—”

But as she moved to stand up, James grabbed her by the wrist. The sudden movement unbalanced Lily, and she had to sit again to steady herself.

“Sorry,” he said, hastily withdrawing his hand.

“It’s fine,” Lily said automatically, though she had no idea why he’d stopped her. 

He gave an awkward sort of chuckle — James Potter, awkward! — and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just, we have to bump heads again.”

She squinted at him, sure she’d heard wrong. “What?”

“If you hit heads once, you’ve got to do it again.”

She laughed uncertainly. If this was a joke, it was a very strange one. “Or what?”

“Well, I don’t know, exactly — it’s this stupid superstition my mum drilled into me.”

Lily cocked her head, absorbing his apparent sincerity. “Is that magical? I’ve never heard of it.”

“I think it’s more Indian than magical,” James said, sheepish. 

She beckoned for him to come closer. “A soft bump,” she warned. “McGonagall will kill me if she comes back and sees I’ve concussed you.”

He snorted, leaning into her, and Lily spared a — horrible, traitorous — thought for how near they were, and how awfully embarrassing the kiss must have been to him. And then he bumped his head against hers, pulled back, and returned to his chair. 

Lily eased herself upright a few moments later, bringing a sheaf of parchment with her. Would this always be the elephant in the room, between them? The easiest way to allay her awkwardness was to talk about it, the rational part of her knew, and yet she could not bring herself to do it. 

She had kept her distance from James, hadn’t she? She had broken up with Dex, she had made her decisions. Now she had to let things rest.

When she had calmed down enough to organise the papers she held, she realised James was frowning down at his set of forms.

“What’s wrong?” Lily said.

After a beat of hesitation, James held out a pile. “Nearly all of the DADA Restricted Section requests come from Slytherins. Look, there’s a load from Avery and Snape and that lot, but also a weird number from second and third years. What’re they using the Restricted Section for?”

Hadn’t she just wondered the same thing? Lily found herself searching for a rational explanation nevertheless.

“I don’t know,” she said, “maybe Thorpe sets them challenging homework…”

“I doubt it.”

“What do you think is happening? Surely not that they’re, I don’t know, compelling students into fetching books for them?”

“Or just asking,” James argued. “Don’t give me that look — if they had too many suspicious books on loan, maybe Pince would tell a teacher, but this way it’s nice and spread out—”

Lily sighed. “I want proof that they’re up to something just as much as you do, James, but I’m not sure—”

“So _be_ sure. Look, all it takes is a peek at Pince’s records, she’s got that big ledger where she keeps track of who’s borrowed what—”

Lily was well-acquainted; she had long suspected that the ledger served as a security system of sorts, so you could not smuggle out a book without signing for it. 

“You can go check right now,” said James.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Me! We’re in the middle of detention—”

“Oh, McGonagall won’t come back, she trusts you not to leave—”

“And what if I walk right into her?”

In response James pulled out a folded-up piece of parchment from his pocket and shoved it at her. “There. You can check to make sure the coast is clear. It’s better that way, actually, so you can avoid Pince as well.”

Lily blinked at the map, aware that it was a big concession on his part to entrust it to her. Which meant he was being serious. 

“Why me? Why not you?”

“I’m still banned from the library. And you’re far less suspicious — half the Great Hall saw McGonagall haul me into her office.”

“All of the Great Hall knows I knocked out Alec Rosier!” Lily protested.

James leaned across the table, his eyes burning with conviction. “You know this makes sense. Christ, Evans! Why is it you’ll Stun Rosier and talk about how helpless you feel, but you’re too scared to ditch detention for five bloody minutes?”

He had a point; briefly, Lily hated him for it. “Fine,” she said at last, scraping her chair back and shaking the map open. “I solemnly— whatever the words are, you do it.”

She knew perfectly well what they were, but bungling them had given her a savage, petty satisfaction. James rolled his eyes and revealed the map with a wave of his wand. She took it back from him, studying the first floor. No sign of Minerva McGonagall… Nor was the professor on the second, third, or fourth floor. In the library, Pince hovered somewhere in the Divination section, leaving the desk unguarded. It _was_ a good opportunity.

James was watching her, one eyebrow cocked, as if to say _well?_ Lily did not want to give him the satisfaction of concession, not again. She whirled around and slipped out of the door.

* * *

_Interlude: Tit for Tat_

Some teachers had eyes on the backs of their heads. Thorpe spotted Sirius before he’d caught sight of her, calling, “Black, a moment?”

Sirius detached himself from Remus and Peter. “Go ahead. I’ll only be a minute,” he muttered; pitching his voice louder, he said, “Yeah, Professor?”

She looked uncharacteristically sheepish. “Would you mind fetching me another book from the library? I’d do it myself, but Pince— Madam Pince, I mean, isn’t happy with me at the moment.” She held out a slip of paper.

Sirius took it. With James in detention, what else was he to do? 

“Why isn’t she happy with you?” Sirius said, tacking on a quick “Professor.”

Thorpe grimaced. “We had a brief argument about the organisation of the Defence Against the Dark Arts section. It got...heated.”

He tried very hard not to laugh. “She’s never happy with me.”

“I’m a teacher,” Thorpe said mildly, “and I’m not going to listen to gossip about other staff members.” She was almost smiling.

Sirius circumvented Pince’s desk and headed for the Defence section. He was familiar with its shelves, thanks to the weeks he and James had spent in the library levitating inkpots at each other. It returned now like muscle memory, taking him through the rows until he’d found the specific volume on counterjinxes that Thorpe had been looking for. 

He reemerged from the library to find Thorpe staring intently down the corridor, wearing a small frown. 

“Here you are, Professor,” Sirius said.

“Ah, thank you. I ought to make peace with Pince sooner rather than later, or I’ll be lurking round here every hour sending students in to get things for me.”

“Probably.”

Thorpe hummed thoughtfully. “You were with Lily Evans, weren’t you, last night?”

“Not with her, exactly. I found her afterwards.” Sirius shifted his weight from one foot to the other, taken aback by this line of questioning.

“Serving detention with McGonagall, isn’t she?”

“I think so,” he said, even more cautiously than before. “This afternoon, yeah.”

“Very interesting,” was all Thorpe said to that. “I’ve troubled you enough, Black. Thank you.” He had taken one step away when she added, “Good work on last week’s essay. You’re improving.”

Sirius coughed, embarrassed. He wanted to assure her that he hadn’t been _trying_ to improve, not really, but all four Marauders had done their homework together that day, and it was impossible to write a stupid essay with Remus swotting it up right there, but — he did not.

“Yeah. Thanks,” he said instead, and hurried off in the direction of Gryffindor Tower before she could direct any other compliments his way. He hoped dearly that Marlene hadn’t thought to mention their conversation to her.

He rounded the corner only to come face to face with his shadow — Regulus, his eyes ringed with the evidence of sleepless nights, a twitchy nervous energy about him. Sirius scowled automatically.

“Buzz off,” he said, stepping around his brother.

Regulus did not hear the warning in his voice — or he chose to ignore it. “She’s trying to butter you up too, isn’t she?”

 _Too?_ Sirius froze, despite his better instincts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She’s a typical blood traitor,” Regulus said, eyes narrowed, “trying to lure more of us over to their side—”

Sirius laughed, putting up a hand. “I’ll stop you right there. First of all, there is no _us,_ and second of all, it’s not _their_ side.” He met his brother’s gaze. “It’s mine.” 

He did not stick around to see how Regulus took that.

* * *

“Did anyone see you?” James said when Lily slipped into McGonagall’s office once more.

She sat down before she answered, folding the map again neatly and sliding it across the table. “Not Pince, not McGonagall. Professor Thorpe was outside the library, though, I couldn’t avoid her.”

James tucked the map away. “She probably doesn’t know you have detention.” Lily made a noise of disbelief. “Believe me. The left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing, or whatever the saying is.”

She remained quiet, evidently still wrestling with her misdeeds. James did not want to snap at her, so instead he gestured to the neat stacks of forms. “I finished with them, and we’ve got plenty of time to cross-reference with the library records. Did you see anything interesting?”

Lily scooted her chair closer to him, laying out copies of what were unmistakably pages from Pince’s ledger. “I’ve got the past few weeks.”

Both of them leaned over the records. Lily’s hand bumped against James’s shoulder as she tucked back her hair; he tried to subtly shift away. 

“There,” said James after a moment, pointing at one entry from late April. “Whatshername, Agape Macnair — bloody hell, she must have a rough go of it — she was one of the requests, wasn’t she?”

“She was — but this is a Charms book, James. See?”

Lily was right: Agape Macnair had borrowed _One Thousand and One Ways to Fly: A Meditation on Levitation._ James deflated a little. 

“Well, yeah, but… Maybe she’s taken out something else.”

But as they shuffled through to the half-filled page where the record ended, it became clear that Agape Macnair hadn’t borrowed anything else from the library in the past month. Undaunted, James searched the stack of Restricted Section forms for hers. It was dated that day — it must have been filed that very morning, he thought, if it had been in this set.

“Isn’t that weird? That she hasn’t borrowed anything since?”

Lily shrugged. “I don’t know that it is, necessarily. She might study in the library all the time, and not have to take out any books. Or maybe she shares with a friend. Mary’s the one who borrows all our Arithmancy books.”

James swore, moving to discard the form. “I’m not crazy. There’s something here, if only we can—”

“Wait!” She grabbed his hand, startling him enough that he dropped the parchment.

James was very grateful Lily was too intent on what she was doing — flipping through the ledger, squinting at Agape Macnair’s cramped, slanted handwriting — to notice his embarrassment. _Grow up,_ he told himself.

“Well?” he prompted.

“Look,” Lily said breathlessly, moving the ledger sheets towards him. When she looked up at him she was beaming, a pleased flush in her cheeks, the glint of satisfaction in her green eyes. James fought to untie his tongue.

“What am I looking at?” he said, perfectly breezy.

She stabbed a finger more insistently at the same entry they had just been looking at. _Agape Macnair, fourth year, Slytherin, One Thousand and One—_

“Oh, hang on,” James whispered, grinning. He met Lily’s gaze, understanding her triumphant expression at last. “Oh, hang _on,_ Agape Macnair’s a third year on the form. No one’s stupid enough to get their _own_ year wrong, and definitely not in May—”

“And, see, the handwriting’s all wrong. The request is cursive, it’s looped, but in the ledger it’s a scrawl—”

“So...Agape Macnair’s their book mule?” James tried to picture a sweet, young girl handing volumes on the Dark Arts to Alec Rosier. 

Lily had turned her attention back to the ledger, frowning. “Have you ever signed out a library book for someone else?”

“What do _you_ think, Evans?”

“Right, never mind. I’ve never thought to check before, but— If Pince wasn’t at her desk, and you were filling out the ledger on your way out, couldn’t you put down anyone’s name?”

“Well, maybe,” said James slowly. Never before had he wished he’d paid more attention to the workings of the library. “Who’d want to do that, though? They’re just library books, unless...”

Lily was nodding. “Unless you’ve got something to hide. You were right — if the lot of them took out books on Dark magic all the time, someone was bound to notice. But if they spread them out, borrowed them under the names of people who tend not to take out books, who would notice?”

He was only half-listening to this — half a page up and across from the Agape Macnair entry was another: _Regulus Black, fifth year, Slytherin…_ _“One Thousand and One Ways to Fly,”_ James murmured.

Lily had gone still too. “Has Regulus taken out a book since then?”

They looked; Regulus had been checking out standard O.W.L. texts, nothing more.

“He’s been borrowing all his risky books as other people,” James said. Then, _“Fuck._ This sounds mental, we could never tell a teacher.”

He regretted it the moment he’d said it, knowing Lily would argue. To his surprise, however, she stayed quiet, biting her bottom lip. 

“Are they forging the permission slips, you think?”

James considered this a moment. “Well — Rosier’s got a signed form, why would he need Agape Macnair to take out whatever he wants?”

“If he's borrowing books as other people so as not to raise any red flags, it stands to reason that he'd need to explain their presence in the Restricted Section,” said Lily. "Or else you'd have a ledger mark for a book borrowed by Agape Macnair, and a very simple search would tell you Agape wasn't allowed to borrow it in the first place. I'll bet if we went through the fulfilled forms and pulled out the unlikely students — the second and third years — they'll be in the ledger with a book about the Dark Arts."

She flipped through the stack of Defence Against the Dark Arts forms once more. She singled out Rosier’s, laying it alongside Agape Macnair’s.

The handwriting didn’t match — that was too simple, James thought, even for the likes of Mulciber. But Slughorn’s signature, at the bottom of the form, was exactly the same — uncannily so. They might never have paused over it, if not for the ledger’s error. Rosier’s form was dated that day as well.

“Some nerve,” James said. “He must’ve dropped them off at the same bloody time. How the hell did Pince not notice?”

Lily laughed, shrugging. “Of course Pince didn’t notice. This is a detention job, James. On any other day the person sorting through the forms wouldn’t care a damn what year Agape Macnair is, unless they happened to _be_ Agape Macnair.”

He shook his head. He shouldn’t have been surprised, given how often the Marauders had successfully taken advantage of lax authority and rarely-enforced rules at Hogwarts. But the satisfaction of having found something out overruled his cynicism.

“Great, all we have to do is tell Slughorn that Rosier’s forged his signature. I don’t have to explain why that’s your job too.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “I think the phrase you’re looking for is _thank you.”_

“I don’t think it is.”

“It’s _thank you, Lily, for sneaking into the library for me after I was stupidly banned from going in myself—”_

“Bloody hell, all right, I get the point—”

She dissolved into laughter. James had, not for the first time, an odd sense of satisfaction, like he’d done something right. 

“Well,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “it’s a good thing Agape Macnair didn’t have detention, and it was us instead.”

Lily’s laughter subsided; she was smiling still. “Yeah. It’s a good thing it was us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off, a big big thank you again to everyone who's expressed their love for this story even in the quiet times. it was so heartening to see new comments/asks despite the lack of new content, and that really made my slump survivable. we crossed 250 kudos (?!!?!??) and 9000 hits, which is just like. two numbers i CANNOT process i'm so glad you're all here <3
> 
> i know some of you predicted lily would bump into rosier, but who had their interaction going like this? heehee. i'm glad lily got to be spunky and fun, poor thing.
> 
> this chapter was written to "oh lately it's so quiet" by ok go, "where you lead" by carole king, and "try (just a little bit harder)" by janis joplin, which of course is where i got the title for section three. and also, bizarrely, to iron man 3, which i decided to rewatch while writing, and unsurprisingly i had to revise basically everything i wrote from that evening. 
> 
> no more rambling, i want to get this chapter out there!
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	27. Two Weeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Lily gets in trouble for Stunning Alec Rosier. Sirius ropes Remus and Peter into keeping her away from James, because he thinks something happened between them over Easter. Something did, as James knows, but it wasn't a kiss, as Lily fears/suspects. Doe has a crush on Michael Meadowes, but they get in a fight when she recklessly endangers herself to chase after the assholes who cursed him. Mary becomes infamous when Cecily Sprucklin spreads rumours about her sexual exploits around the school, since Mary kissed her man Chris Townes and sort of broke up her best friendship. Germaine kisses Emmeline Vance, but then Emmeline literally runs away and also her BFF Amelia Bones talks shit about Germaine to Mary. Oh, and they're rival Seekers. Sirius bonds with DADA Prof. Thorpe, who is relatable because of her bigoted radio show host dad. In detention, Lily and James find out the Death Eater wannabes are borrowing sketchy library books under fake names. 
> 
> NOW: In the two weeks after Lily and James discover something fishy in the library ledgers, the Death Eater wannabes’ plan falls into place — and things fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for 10,000 hits (?!?!?!?!! feels fake when I write it out?!?!?!?). This is wild. You're all amazing. Check my tumblr @thequibblah for a spoiler-free playlist for this chapter.

_i. Saturday / The Marauders’ Way_

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Slughorn was saying, caught between grave worry and something like chagrin whenever he looked in McGonagall’s direction. 

“Perhaps,” McGonagall said frostily, “we should rule that Restricted Section permission slips only be signed by the specific teacher who oversees that subject.” Slughorn flushed. She made a note, then peered at Lily and James. “Well done, Evans, Potter.”

“Ten points to Gryffindor for each of you,” added Slughorn. 

“It was more James than me,” said Lily. “He, er, is really passionate about...Madam Pince’s record-keeping.”

At this McGonagall narrowed her eyes. “He is currently serving a ban from the library.”

“It’s a long-running thing,” James assured her. “We’ve got loads of history, the library and me.”

“I am well aware of that,” McGonagall muttered. “A good deed does not undo a bad one, Miss Evans, so I will see you in my office for detention next week as well.”

Lily suppressed a sigh.

“Is that really fair, Professor?” James said.

“I think it is, Mr. Potter. And don’t bother coming up with a harebrained scheme by which you can keep Evans company.” She fixed him with a sharp look. “If you’d like to join her in detention, I’m happy to give you one right now.”

“No, Professor,” he said immediately. 

Slughorn was searching through the permission slips, forged and otherwise, that Lily and James had picked out. “Avery, Rosier, Selwyn,” he muttered under his breath, like it was a chant.

Lily wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or disappointed that none of them had been Severus. She could no longer tell herself that a lack of evidence meant a lack of intent, with him. After all, they hadn’t been able to find an obviously forged slip they could tie to Regulus Black either, and she was sure _he_ was involved.

“Could I speak to Agape Macnair, Professor?” she said, turning to Slughorn. “And the other false names, just to make sure no one’s pressuring them to—”

“You have done quite enough,” said McGonagall firmly. “I’ll speak to the younger students myself.”

She tried not to deflate too visibly. She would take whatever victories she could get.

“—detention until term ends, no Hogsmeade visits, no library privileges,” James finished ticking off the punishments on his fingers.

Sirius snorted. “No _library_ access, scary.”

“Well, if they were using the Restricted Section for something,” Remus began.

“You literally shivered at the thought, Moony, and I don’t think _that’s_ why—”

“I didn’t!”

“Anyway, it’s something,” said James, raising his voice to be heard over his bickering friends.

“What’s the plan, then?” Sirius said. “They’re obviously trying to do something, and we have to stop them.”

Remus groaned. “We’ve done enough. Can’t we just...plan Peter’s big idea?”

Sirius ignored him, knowing — as always — that James was the one to convince here. “We’ve tried the Evans way.” A sardonic smile. “Now we finish it our way.”

James could not argue there. He was too busy withholding the fact of Regulus’s involvement. He had not _meant_ to, not really, but he hadn’t mentioned it right away and was quickly coming to realise it would be very easy to continue this way. 

“You’re right,” he said; Sirius sat back, satisfied. “Oh, don’t look like that, Moony, you’ll love this idea.” And he produced a list from his pocket, passing it around.

“Are these...books?” Peter said.

“The books that Rosier et cetera were borrowing, under fake names and their own,” James confirmed. “Since Pete and I are banned for another week still, it’s up to you two.”

Remus appeared mollified; Sirius, however, had grown dismayed.

“Why does _everyone_ want me to go in the library?” he moaned.

* * *

_ii. Sunday / Levitating_

Remus did not wear spectacles. In fact, of the four Marauders he had the keenest vision, which was probably owed to good genes but made him feel unsettled whenever he was reminded of it, as if it was a sign that the wolf was stealing its way into his waking life as well.

A ridiculous notion, he knew. But one could hardly fault him for being irrational where the wolf was concerned. 

But unless his eyes had suddenly decided to fail him, something was wrong with the library. He had spent a good part of the morning scanning the shelves in the Charms section — instead of doing his homework, which there was quite a lot of — and had come to the conclusion that there was _no_ copy of _One Thousand and One Ways to Fly: A Meditation on Levitation_ in it. 

The Slytherins and Rosier had been forced to return all their falsely-borrowed books, so it ought to have been somewhere on the shelves. Remus had snuck a look at Pince’s ledger while the cantankerous librarian had left her desk to confirm that it hadn’t been borrowed by someone else. It had not. 

Then it must have been from the Restricted Section. Remus couldn’t imagine what was so dangerous about levitation — but given the disturbing efficacy of _Levicorpus_ in the hands of his friends as well as his enemies, he supposed it was better to be safe. But that meant he couldn’t find it until he had a signed permission slip from Flitwick. The Charms professor was persuadable, but they did not have Charms until Wednesday, and Remus didn’t fancy having to come up with a story about the book. 

What to do, then? He made for the velvet rope that blocked off the Restricted Section. He wasn’t going to try to slip in, of course. There were probably a hundred different spells to prevent that. But just to see…

He stopped short. A table was pulled up just outside the rope.

“Professor Thorpe,” Remus said. He shouldn’t have been surprised that the school had set up someone to keep watch on the Restricted Section. He wished that it had been Flitwick, so he might have talked his way around him.

Then again, that was probably _why_ it hadn’t been Flitwick.

“Mr. Lupin,” Thorpe said, her gaze flicking up from the scroll of parchment she was studying. It was covered in red marks from her quill. He pitied the student who would get it back.

Remus realised he had nothing to ask her. He was standing there, staring.

“Do you need anything?” said Thorpe pointedly.

Remus coughed. “N-No.”

“Then I suggest you don’t hover around the Restricted Section, Mr. Lupin. I know I’ve assigned enough homework that you have better things to do.”

“Right.” Remus withdrew before she could say anything else.

* * *

_iii. Monday / Sleuthing_

“—never again,” Remus said grimly, arms crossed over his chest, shoulders hunched. “Never _again_ am I letting you pick the Sneezewort—”

Lily laughed. “What was I supposed to do, tell Sprout we’d swapped because you have no faith in me?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what you were supposed to do!”

“It was just one fairyfoot,” Lily protested, referring to the tiny pests they were supposed to shoo away before collecting Sneezewort. That was the first rule of Herbology — when the plant you were dealing with wasn’t dangerous, it probably carried some dangerous parasite. A sizeable portion of the lesson thereafter had been devoted to beating the fairyfoot from Remus’s sweater.

In her opinion, Remus was only so fussed because he had grossly overreacted to the experience of having a bug on his sweater.

“Never, ever, ever again,” was all he said in response.

“I heard you the first twenty times,” Lily said drily. 

They entered through the back gate into the courtyard. She tensed a little. Only two days ago she had Stunned Rosier here. The more she considered the memory, the less certain she was that it had been justified at all. He had reached for his wand — or at least she’d thought so, in the moment, but what if it had been just a trick of the light?

Her worry wasn’t just altruistic. More than once at mealtimes she had felt Rosier’s stare boring into her. Lily had looked back, defiant, but he was not embarrassed into glancing away. It was so... _creepy,_ and she knew he intended it to be. He wanted her to feel unsettled.

Well, she would not let him affect her for long. And she would get to the bottom of his plan. 

“Fancy coming with me on an errand?” she said to Remus.

“Sure. What sort of errand?”

Lily steered him by the elbow through the crush of students, having spotted a green-tied student she could approach. 

“I have a question for someone,” she said, not wanting to be overheard.

Remus sighed. “I never thought I’d say this, but you sound so much like James.”

Lily snorted to conceal her surprise. They had caught up to the person she’d been looking for — one of the fifth-year Slytherin prefects, a short, dark-haired girl named Elenore Nesbitt. Lily fell into step beside her, pushing Remus to Elenore’s other side none too subtly.

Elenore, noticing she’d been boxed in by Gryffindors, gave a sigh and looked up at Lily. “Is there something you want, Evans?”

This bluntness did not put Lily off at all — Elenore was always unfriendly, which was a good deal better than all the Slytherins who antagonised Lily specifically because of who she was. 

So she smiled. “Yes, actually. Do you know a Slytherin girl named Agape Macnair? Third- or fourth-year, I’m not sure.”

Remus made a face at Lily over Elenore’s head.

“Why do you care?” said Elenore.

“Found her notes in the library,” Lily lied smoothly. 

Elenore humphed. “Third year. About ye high—” she gestured at her own knee, which was incredibly unlikely “—wears her hair in cornrows.”

Lily hoped that was enough of a description to identify Agape by, because Elenore seemed unwilling to say more. 

“Great!” she said, “thanks so much. Have a great one.”

“Great,” Elenore echoed.

Lily grabbed Remus and quickened her pace. 

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing this time?” he said.

“We’re speaking to Agape Macnair, of course,” said Lily. “McGonagall said she would already, but — I hate to think of Rosier shaking down some fourteen-year-old. Or scaring her into staying quiet, or something like that.”

“So _that’s_ what this is about.”

“I’m guessing James told you.”

“He showed us, actually. He’s got copies of Pince’s ledger.”

Lily spared a moment in admiration of James’s methods. He must have kept the copies she’d made, since all they had showed McGonagall and Slughorn were the forged permission slips.

Remus redirected them to a less crowded corridor. “Shortcut,” he explained at her questioning look. “Do you think the names they chose were random?”

She bit her bottom lip, frowning. “Isn’t that too much of a risk? What if you picked someone who borrows lots of library books, or is likely to complain, or—”

“That’s not what I mean,” Remus said. “I mean...more specific markers than their library habits.”

This had occurred to her too. Lily hugged herself, feeling as though the hallway had suddenly become drafty. 

“Macnair — they’re a magical family, aren’t they?” she murmured.

“They are,” Remus allowed. “But, well, you’re not likely to find a Muggle Mulciber. What if she’s just a girl from Scotland?”

Lily shook her head. “Agape,” she pointed out. “What kind of Muggle names their daughter _Agape,_ Remus?”

“A Greek one?”

“That’s too many coincidences.” 

In truth it was easier to tell herself that Agape Macnair was not Muggle-born, because that would add a layer to this convoluted scheme she wasn’t ready to consider. What if they were trying to make Muggle-born students seem like the aggressors, not the victims? And she, Lily, had allowed them to set the trap, Stunning Rosier with little provocation… _God,_ how pleased they must have been… 

She mentally shook herself as they entered the Entrance Hall. A glance at her watch told her that the route they’d taken was indeed a shortcut; pleased to have a reason to change the subject, Lily said, “I’ll have to get one of you to tell me more of the castle’s secrets. Ten extra minutes in bed every morning is more feasible than I thought.”

Remus laughed. “We’ve got to have _some_ secrets, Lily.”

“Really, Remus? Secrets, even where my _health_ and _wellbeing_ is concerned?”

She scanned the Slytherin table as soon as they stepped into the Great Hall. They’d beat the lunch rush so far, and the massive chamber was quiet. Lily zeroed in on a clump of Slytherin girls chatting among themselves, one of whom was Black and wore her hair in cornrows, as Elenore had mentioned. 

“Do you think they’re third years?” Lily whispered to Remus.

He blinked. “Maybe? They look smaller than we were at that age.”

“They get smaller every year.”

The girls had realised they were being observed, and they grew silent, watching Lily and Remus with wide eyes. Belatedly, Lily remembered her now-infamous reputation. There had been little opportunity, in Herbology class, for anyone to make a crack about how hex-happy she was.

There was nothing to do but approach them, anyway.

“Hi,” said Lily to all of them, trying not to single out maybe-Agape right away. “Are you lot third years?”

A silent chorus of nods. 

“Cool,” she said, though there was nothing objectively _cool_ about the fact of their age. Lily cringed inwardly. “Which one of you is Agape Macnair?”

The girl in cornrows met her gaze. “That’s me.”

She nodded. “Sorry to interrupt, but could I have a word? It’ll just be a minute.”

Agape looked wary, but stood and moved some distance from her friends. “What is it?”

“My name’s Lily—”

“I know who you are,” she interrupted. “Professor Slughorn and Professor McGonagall spoke to me yesterday, about the books.” She glanced between Remus and Lily. “That’s what you wanted to talk about, isn’t it?”

Lily was relieved she did not have to gently lead up to the matter at hand. “Yes—”

“I don’t know what else you want to know. I’ve already told them everything.”

“We don’t want to know anything,” Remus cut in. “That’s the teachers’ business, not ours.” (Lily kept her expression blank.) “We just wanted to make sure you’re all right. That no one’s been giving you trouble.”

To their surprise, Agape laughed. “Nothing but the same trouble I’ve been getting for years.”

Lily shook her head, confused. But the girl had looked so happy with her friends… “What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “I’m not about to tell two people I don’t know, no offence. Look, it’s nice of you to ask, but I’m fine.”

Lily tried not to let her disappointment show. She supposed it _was_ a lot to ask. “Right. If anything does happen, though—”

“I’ll tell a teacher,” Agape finished, a little wearily. “I know how things work, Lily Evans.”

She gave them an almost-smile and went back to her table. Lily released the sigh she’d been holding back and drifted towards the Gryffindor table. Remus dropped down beside her.

“Could’ve been a lot worse,” he pointed out.

“But if she’s being hassled, why hasn’t she said anything already?” Lily reached automatically for the nearest dish of chicken pot pie, but her appetite had dimmed. 

Remus frowned. “I don’t think it’s ever that simple. Mulciber and his mates gave you crap for years, about Snape, and it’s not like you went to a teacher, did you?”

“No,” Lily admitted. “It shouldn’t _be_ like that, though. It’s not—”

“Fair?” He shrugged, looking pained. “It is what it is.”

 _I know how things work._ If this was how things worked, it was abundantly clear that they weren’t working at all. 

“Don’t look so glum,” said Remus. “You can keep an eye out, or ask Elenore Nesbitt to. Besides, I’ve thought of a much easier way to figure out if Agape’s Muggle-born or not.”

“Have you?”

Remus nodded, jerking a thumb at the crowd of sixth years now entering the Great Hall. James made a beeline for where Remus and Lily sat; Sirius and Peter followed. Lily looked studiously at her plate, tracing her fork through the steaming pot pie filling.

“Question for you, Padfoot,” Remus said, either not noticing or choosing to ignore Lily’s discomfort. “Is Agape Macnair one of _those_ Macnairs?”

Sirius narrowed his eyes in thought. “That’s the library girl, isn’t it? I never knew the Macnairs as well, but… Agape, Agape…”

“It’s not really a forgettable name,” said Lily before she could stop herself.

Sirius snorted. “What’s an Agape among Cassius and Thalia and Narcissa and Regulus?”

“She’s in third year, if that helps,” Remus said.

“Sorry, haven’t got a clue. Maybe if you told me her parents’ names, but…” He shrugged.

Lily could see her friends some way along the table, looking at her. The conversation here was not yet fraught, but it could be. It would be. She stood abruptly, grabbing her plate and her bag. 

“Worth a try,” she said with faux-brightness. “See you all around.” 

As Lily walked away, she heard James say, “Is she all right?” She walked faster so she would not hear the response.

* * *

_iv. Wednesday / Trundling_

Duck. Weave. _When you round the corner by the posts you drift a little,_ James had pulled her aside to say. Germaine focused on keeping a tight trajectory this time. She squeezed her eyes shut; the wind was making them water. But you could never fly with eyes closed for too long — not during Quidditch practice, and certainly not _in_ a game, because there was always a risk of—

“BLUDGER!” one of her teammates shouted, and Germaine’s eyes flew open. 

She didn’t think; she moved right into the brake position, angling off-course. When she came to a halt, gasping for air, her hair coming loose of its stubby ponytail, the Bludger whizzed a safe few feet past her.

“Do not,” James roared, _“decapitate_ our Seeker before the game!”

A sheepish Isobel Park was the target of his ire. She put her hands up in surrender. “My fault. She usually drifts.”

“She’s trying to fix that, so let’s not depend upon her failing.”

Germaine knew James’s protectiveness was supposed to make her feel better, but it was more like pressure. She blew out a breath and waved at Isobel and James.

“I’m all right!” she called.

“We can see that,” James said.

Germaine rolled her eyes and wished he were near enough to see. 

“Speed runs with her, Park. Go on.”

Isobel threw her head back and tossed her Beater’s bat at James, who caught it easily. Then she sped towards Germaine, who was idling where she’d stopped. 

“Go easy on me,” Isobel murmured.

Germaine laughed, not without pity. The most mobile of the team’s fliers were the Chasers, other than her. Speed runs were less a practice for Germaine and more a warning for Isobel.

“One sprint, one rest lap?” Germaine said.

“Good Godric, _thank_ you.”

One breathless round of the stadium later, Germaine and Isobel slowed to a more leisurely pace. Around them the practice continued as normal — Bert, deprived of a Beater partner, was playing the part of a rival Chaser. 

“Knut for your thoughts,” said Isobel, startling Germaine to attention.

“None, really. My head’s gloriously empty when I’m flying.”

Isobel laughed. “Not nervous, then?”

Germaine scoffed, giving her a look. “I’m always nervous. You know that.”

“There’s different types of nervous. Nervous about Quidditch, nervous about Ravenclaw, nervous about Ravenclaw’s Seeker…” Isobel trailed off, her point having been made.

“Did James tell you?” Germaine muttered for lack of a better response. She hated to imagine the rest of the team strategising around her hangups. It seemed unlike him to gossip—

“James didn’t need to tell me. I have eyes, King. It’s hard enough playing against your friends, but worse still playing against your friends when you’re in a rough patch.”

Germaine relaxed a little at her use of the word _friends._ “It’s not a big deal.”

“Do you think it would help to speak with her?”

“Probably not.”

Isobel raised her brows. “Well...would you say it’s going well as is?”

“No,” admitted Germaine.

“So would you want to change something, or trundle along and hope for the best?”

This was one of those leading questions where it was quite obvious that the first option was the recommended one. Germaine opened her mouth to tell Isobel that yes, she _would_ happily trundle along and hope for the best.

“I said speed runs, not chitchat!” James shouted.

“Race you to the far posts,” Isobel said, as glumly as if she were flying to certain death.

* * *

_v. Thursday / Slag_

“Budge over,” Mary said. “Don’t bother reading that one, you won’t understand it anyway.”

Cecily Sprucklin scowled, shifting away from the section of shelving she had been considering. “Hullo, slag.” 

“Weird to greet yourself, but all right.” Mary traced the spines before finally pulling out the book she’d been looking for. She had finished her more theoretical homework, which left Transfiguration. She repressed a sigh at the heavy tome in her own hands. It was volume four of a series. She could need volume five too...

“Myself? You snogged my boyfriend,” said Cecily haughtily. 

“Sure. You snogged Amelia’s, then lied about it and about me to the whole school. Haven’t we been over this already?” 

She hadn’t the time to engage with Cecily bloody Sprucklin. She really hadn’t. But oh, her blood boiled when she thought of Mulciber’s name in that fake diary — the step that crossed a line from ordinary school cruelty to something worse, something sharper. Did Cecily even realise it?

The other witch had flushed a deep red. “Whatever, slag.”

“Great,” Mary deadpanned. She moved towards her table.

“You should find a different section to sit in,” Cecily called after her.

“Why, afraid I’m going to seduce all your friends?” Mary waved sweetly at the group Cecily had been sitting with, mostly Hufflepuffs of various years. They did not wave back. The tables beyond them — full of other sixth years — had fallen silent to observe this confrontation. “I see Florence really _has_ dumped you.” Cecily’s best mate was nowhere to be found.

“Shut up and leave, _slag.”_

“I think you should, Mary,” said Bertram Aubrey, who puffed up his chest but could not entirely conceal his nervousness. 

“Or what?”

“It’s — don’t make it a difficult situation,” Aubrey muttered.

Mary shrugged. “Is it difficult for you? It’s all going swimmingly from where I’m standing.”

She glanced pointedly around them. Some three dozen faces, none of them Gryffindors, none of them particularly friendly. Even her armour had its chinks, and Mary felt the needle-pinprick of loneliness. She forced it away at once.

“It’s not like I can’t study anywhere else,” she said airily, turning tail and moving towards the Charms section. She dropped into the first free seat she saw.

Though her heart was pounding, she felt remarkably calm. She set her books around her and bent over her parchment.

“You all right?”

Mary was already rolling her eyes as she turned. “Nice of you to chime in.”

Chris Townes looked serious — embarrassed, even — for the first time possibly ever. How surprising, Mary thought, that he had finally evolved to have complex emotions. He cleared his throat, mussing up his fair hair. 

“I should’ve, earlier,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t say anything way back when, with the diary and all—”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know,” Mary said. “So if you’re looking for absolution, or whatever, consider it given. Bye, Chris.”

In this at least he was smart. He nodded and walked away.

* * *

_vi. Saturday / Standoff_

“Do you ever think about how strange it is,” Peter said, “for regular Hogsmeade residents who have to deal with us invading the Three Broomsticks every now and then?”

“No,” said James slowly, “but now I’m thinking it.”

“If I were a regular Hogsmeade resident, I’d piss off on our visit days,” Sirius declared.

”You’re _that_ averse to sharing?” said Remus, perfectly dry.

“No. I’d have better things to do than share space with teenagers.”

The other three nodded at this. He had a point.

“Not all of them are creeps,” said James, ever the optimist. “Look, that’s Alistair Longbottom.”

They squinted through the crowd. 

“Is anyone gonna tell him Frank Longbottom’s on duty in the castle?” Peter said.

Peter, Remus, and Sirius all looked at James.

James groaned. “What? Why me?”

“Because you know him, obviously,” said Sirius. “Go on, say _hallo_ from Mummy and Daddy.”

James glared at him. “He’s an adult. I’m sure he’s realised why his son who has a job isn’t gallivanting around the village.”

“Euphemia will be wrecked to hear of this,” said Peter.

“Awful manners,” agreed Remus.

“You lot are the _worst_ mates in the world.”

“Buy us a refill while you’re at it,” added Sirius.

James made a loud noise of complaint just so his reluctance was registered, and made for the bar. The boys were drinking spiked Butterbeer in solidarity with Peter, who turned seventeen the next week and could not order a Firewhisky from a watchful Rosmerta just yet. (The boys had plenty of other ways to drink, but they had elected to respect the barkeep’s rules.) 

He greeted Madam Rosmerta and asked for the Butterbeers. She reacted with some skepticism, which made him hope she couldn’t smell the alcohol on his breath. Then James went to say hello to Alistair Longbottom; despite the dramatics, he knew his parents would appreciate it, and he quite liked the man. When he saw him, anyway. No one was more chained to his desk.

“Hi, Mr. Longbottom. Weekend off from work, is it?”

Alistair beamed and shook his hand. “Just the day, James, just the day. Never go into the International Confederation, or you’ll be drowning in paperwork.” He sounded perfectly cheerful, despite the warning.

“I have no desire to,” James said in complete honesty. Mr. Longbottom laughed, and James grinned in response, though he had not meant it as a joke at all. “Frank’s in the castle, I reckon.”

“Bad luck that I missed him, then!”

James blinked. “Well — you can always go look in on him, can’t you?”

“It’s not that simple, you can’t just drop into Hogwarts,” said Mr. Longbottom.

This was news to James, of course, who had always had free run of the castle. But he supposed if parents could show up at any moment and demand entry, he would have seen a good deal more ticked-off adults. 

“Bad luck, then,” James said at last.

He couldn’t think of much else to say and opened his mouth to bid the wizard goodbye, but something caught his eye. James turned just in time to see a tall, pale wizard backing away from a table, hands up in surrender — and Professor Thorpe, charging right towards him.

“’S a free country, isn’t it?” the wizard said. “Why can’t I sit where I like and have a Firewhisky—”

“Not _here,_ not while I teach here, you worthless bastard,” Thorpe growled.

The rest of the inn quieted. The wizard was chuckling now, shaking his head. Rosmerta darted out from behind the bar and planted herself between him and Thorpe, her hands on her hips.

“Not in my establishment, please,” she said, her voice low but firm. “There’s children all around.”

Indeed there were. The Three Broomsticks wasn’t as full as it would have been, due to all the students who’d elected to stay behind and study, but there were still students as young as third and fourth years, staring wide-eyed at their professor. Thorpe realised this in the same moment James had, and relaxed her aggressive stance. 

But she did not seem ready to back down.

“Take your recruitment elsewhere,” Thorpe bit out.

The man laughed once more, turning his back on her and heading for the door without being asked twice. In profile James recognised him — fine-boned and sneering, the spitting image of Alec Rosier. His brother, then, Marty or Marcus or whatever his name was. 

“Sorry,” Thorpe said to Rosmerta in the silence. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene—”

“It’s all right, Professor,” Madam Rosmerta said. “I’m glad to see the back of him.” 

A smaller figure darted round Thorpe and vanished through the door, too fast for James to make out any defining features. 

“Oh dear,” said Alistair Longbottom, shaking himself and sipping at his pumpkin juice.

 _Oh dear indeed,_ James thought grimly.

“You’re not ready,” Marius Rosier said without looking back.

Regulus was a little breathless from running after him. “We are. It’s only detention for the rest of them — it’s not like they’re being punished much, they just can’t come to Hogsmeade—”

“I didn’t say anything about them. I said _you’re_ not ready.” 

Regulus stopped short. Marius hadn’t turned to face him, not once. Anger simmered low and ugly within him.

“I _am_ ready,” he said. “I have an idea.”

Marius stopped. “Do you?”

“I mean— I had _the_ idea. It was mine.” 

“We’ll see if it works, then.”

“I didn’t know Prefects could get detention!”

Lily winced. McGonagall had just shunted her out of the office. She was alone in the corridor save for the girl who’d spoken. She had a mass of curly, white-blonde hair and sported a red-and-gold tie. Lily was certain she knew her, and stood there smiling awkwardly for a minute while she fished for a name. 

“Margaret!” she said at last. “Hello.” She had met the first year immediately after the Welcome Feast — and immediately before the Marauders’ food prank had kicked in. “Prefects can, unfortunately, get detention.”

“Well, what did you do?” Margaret fell into step beside her. 

Lily couldn’t think how to shake her off. And would it be better to lie to her, or be honest and trust that common sense would overrule Gryffindor recklessness?

In the end she decided honesty was best. She hadn’t liked being talked down to as an eleven year old. 

“Duelling in the corridor,” Lily said. “Which is very much not allowed.”

Margaret nodded a little impatiently, as if bored by the reminder. “Was it that Ravenclaw bloke? The one everyone says you got?”

She tried not to laugh at the idea that she’d _got_ Rosier, as if she’d been lurking in a darkened hall to shiv him. 

“I probably shouldn’t say. I’d get in trouble, and I’ve had enough of detention.”

Margaret looked disappointed. Lily smiled at her meaningfully. 

“Did you lose loads of points?” Margaret asked. 

Lily’s smile fell. She was certain it wasn’t the most points anyone had lost at once — the Marauders probably well outpaced her in that regard. But it was still more than she’d have wanted. 

“Some,” she admitted. 

Margaret made a noise of sympathy. How had the first year decided _she_ was comforting _Lily_ now?

“We’ll win it back,” Margaret said, and skipped off. 

* * *

_vii. Sunday / Thinking With Your Prick_

“It’s proto-Christian,” Michael said.

“It’s not,” Dorcas said, torn between exasperation and amusement. “Unless every folk tradition in a Christianity-practising country is proto-Christian, in which case—”

“Well, _that’s_ not what I mean, I mean it’s like…you know, all those Old English stories that took on a Christian bent because people rewrote them to be—”

Doe laughed. “For one, can you read Old English? Honestly, Michael. And for another, I don’t think _proto-Christian_ is the right descriptor even if you’re correct—”

“Of course I can read Old English. What do you take me for, an amateur?”

“We’re supposed to be working.” Doe stifled another burst of laughter. _And,_ she added silently to herself, _we’re supposed to be in a fight._

Would it have been much harder to stay angry at each other if they had continued to study together over the weeks? Apparently so. She hated that. She was now left with all the confusion and none of the easy frustration. Where was the playbook for this?

Michael seemed to have remembered the same thing. He cleared his throat, blushing a little, and looked back at his translation.

“So, I’m still iffy about this epithet here. I can’t tell if it’s describing the water or the rusalka herself—”

Eyes on the prize, the prize being an O in Ancient Runes. Doe leaned closer, frowning at the runes Michael was pointing at. 

“Well, I assumed it was the river, because I didn’t think rusalki were blue-skinned. Or maybe it’s...a sort of transferred epithet, so it’s declined to match this noun but actually describes the water?” 

Michael sighed. “If you’ve got a spare copy of _Fantastic Beasts,_ well…”

They were studying in an empty Runes classroom, not the library proper — it was far more conducive to quiet discussion, and several other pairs had come to work on their own translations. The shelves here were more than adequate for their homework, since most of the translating was already done, but Doe did not think they would find _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ amidst the dusty rune encyclopaedia.

“I don’t remember rusalki being included in that book anyway,” she said. “Do you think it bothers them to be called creatures?” 

Michael tilted his head to one side in thought. “What do you mean?”

“Well, they’re not like dogs, or even...I don’t know, unicorns, which are obviously intelligent and can interact with us when socialised to—” Dorcas straightened, the words coming to her without much thought. 

“It’s like, banshees, right? Or vampires? They’re sentient and they can converse with us. But there’s a line between humans and creatures and they’re somehow on the other side of that line. And it’s troubling in and of itself that we measure everything up against us, when there’s so much _we_ don’t know— 

“Like, dolphins might be intelligent enough to take over the world, only they just don’t want to — or they’ve taken over the ocean already, and we haven’t realised it, and we’re lucky that we live on land and they’re aquatic— Are you _laughing_ at me?”

He wasn’t, not quite. But Michael seemed to be suppressing a big smile.

“No, of course not,” he said. “It’s just funny, though, that some people — upon realising magic’s real — see every new possibility as a place for compassion. And others live all their lives knowing the most unbelievable things are true, only to remain inflexible.”

Doe smiled slightly in return, still a little lost in thought. She had always known magic was real. Magic was not so tenuous to her as it must have seemed to Michael, or even to Lily and Mary. But her parents’ own Muggle upbringings had probably rubbed off on her. 

“Not everyone has what we have, and I see that more as a reason to share than a reason to withhold,” she said softly. 

“Yeah. I can see that.”

The words sounded heavier than they should have. Doe met his gaze, took in the crease between his eyebrows. What did _he_ see, when he looked at her? 

Then she dropped her gaze. “A blue river sounds odd. Blue ocean, yes, blue lake, maybe. But blue river? In the night? Call it modernisation or poetic license, or whatever. The rusalka can be blue-skinned.”

Peter frowned at the piece of parchment spread out before him. It had originally contained a neat list in Remus’s hand, but amendments in James’s messy scrawl made it harder and harder to read. 

“The problem is Apparition.” He was well aware of this problem, since he could not yet Apparate. Never had he felt more frustrated by something so out of control as his date of birth.

James was twisting a quill in his fingers. “People who can’t Apparate can use the Knight Bus.”

“Then the Knight Bus has to be a safe zone,” Peter said, “or it’s not fair still.”

James blew out a breath. “We need fresh perspective. We’ve been trying to fine-tune these rules for a fucking week, and we’re stuck thinking the same way we always have.”

“How are we supposed to change that, then?”

But James had already come up with an idea. Better to do than discuss, his principle went, and so he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Evans!”

She looked up from the book she was reading, brows raised, and motioned _what?_ with her hands. James beckoned her over. She shook her head. James beckoned more insistently. Finally she sighed and started to stand, very slowly. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Peter said. He’d gone rather pale, and was avoiding James’s gaze.

“Why not? I’ll just ask her what she thinks.”

“I don’t think we need outside perspective at all—”

“We’ve had no luck at all, Wormtail,” James said, impatience spilling into his voice. “I don’t fancy another useless brainstorming session.”

Peter mumbled something under his breath.

“If Padfoot doesn’t like it he can take it up with me.”

Peter made a face, as if that was exactly what he _didn’t_ want.

“Relax, Pete. It’s a question.”

“What is it?” Lily had arrived before Peter could protest again.

James gestured to the empty chair next to him. “Sit. We’d like to pick your brain.”

“I charge by the minute,” Lily said, but slid into the chair nonetheless, crossing her legs and dropping her chin into her hands. “Well?”

“We’re trying to organise a game this summer, but we keep running into the same problem — some people can Apparate already and others can’t.”

“That tells me exactly nothing at all.” Lily reached for the parchment of rules, frowning at it. “This is illegible, James.”

Peter looked more uncomfortable than ever. James leaned back in his seat. 

“Wormtail can explain it. It was his idea. Go on.”

“Well, all right,” Peter said. “You’re familiar with tig, the game, right?”

“No,” said Lily at once. “It’s tag.”

James grinned.

“Not where I’m from,” said Peter, looking embarrassed.

“I mean, it’s _tag, you’re it,_ not _tig, you’re—_ Oh, sorry, Peter, I’m being a horrible pedant. Just go on.”

Peter laughed shakily. “Right. Anyway. It’s sort of like ti— tag, only not… Everyone gets a target, see, and you have to take out your target with a spell before the end of, let’s say the week.”

Lily looked alarmed. “Not just any spell, I hope?”

James intervened. “We’re working on that.”

She didn’t seem much reassured. “An unauthorised spell isn’t exactly safe either.”

“Evans, we’re surrounded by _Muffliato_ and _Levicorpus_ users. D’you think those have the Ministry’s rubber stamp?”

“You’re proving _my_ point, not your own,” she retorted. “Anyway, keep going. So it’s a spell that won’t hurt anyone.”

“No, yeah — that’s what we’re working on,” Peter said. “Maybe it’ll just be sparks or something, and the game master gets alerted whenever it’s cast successfully.”

Lily was nodding. “So someone’s keeping track of whether or not you get your target, understood. Who’s that going to be?”

“Moony,” both boys said at once.

“Good choice,” said Lily wryly. “But the problem is Apparition. I see what you mean now. If I have Peter, I can get to him far more easily than he can escape from me…”

James nodded, encouraged by her quickness. “So far we’ve got safe zones, so no idiots will break into anyone’s house—” 

She arched an eyebrow; they were thinking the same thing, that he, James, was most likely to be the idiot breaking into someone’s house.

“—no bothering someone at their place of work either, since that seems like a recipe for disaster.”

“If you’re going to have that many exclusions, maybe you ought to just have one in-play zone,” Lily said. “Wizarding London, and that’s it.”

The boys digested this for a moment.

“Everyone has to come to London, then, a certain number of times a week,” James said slowly. 

“At a certain time, to a certain place,” Lily corrected. “Because I could just have, I don’t know, breakfast in Knockturn Alley on Wednesdays, and no one would catch me there.”

“Not if you had any sense of self-preservation.”

She rolled her eyes and gestured for him to hand over the quill. “I think better when I’m writing. Look, let’s say a week is Friday to Thursday, so you get a new target first thing Friday morning. By owl?” She looked up at Peter while she asked the question.

“Too slow. Protean Charm, we reckon, and everyone can have a talisman or something that automatically changes. So if they get their target on Saturday, they’ve got an extra five days to work on their next one.”

Her brows shot up. “That’s complicated magic.”

“We’ve done it before,” said James, waving a hand.

She looked like she was trying not to smile. “But you _all_ won’t be. It’ll be just Remus, unless you plan on cheating.”

“Touching as your concern is, he’ll manage.”

Lily turned back to the parchment. “Right, new target on Friday morning, on your talisman thing. Then you have to be at the Leaky Cauldron for lunch on Saturday. Lunch must be taken in the inn’s main room, at any time between eleven o’clock and half past two, let’s be generous… And to prove you were there, you have to sign in with Tom the innkeeper.”

“All the people taking the Knight Bus in, or something—” Peter began.

“The Knight Bus ought to be a safe zone. I mean, unless you want your players to be taken in by the Law Enforcement Patrol for causing a nuisance…”

“As much as I personally would love that, I don’t think everyone would,” said James. “But is three-odd hours on a Saturday enough?”

“Maybe...if you can’t come in on Saturday, you’ve got to have three meals at the Cauldron during the week.” Lily scribbled this down. “It’s safer to be around on a weekday, but you’ll need to do it more often.”

“That’s not half bad,” James said, marvelling at what she’d written. 

She smiled. “Funny way of saying thank you, Potter.” She set down the quill and pushed her chair back. “Now, I’ve got a book to return to.” 

She waved it at them, and James realised he recognised the cover. He’d had it for all of Easter, after all; it was the slim clothbound volume she’d lent him. _Persuasion._ Her bookmark was stuck very early on.

“Has that old bastard Walter gone to Bath yet?” James asked, pointing at the book.

Lily looked down at it, then back at him. “Not — not yet, no. I didn’t think you’d read it.”

He snorted. “Either you’ve got memory problems, Evans, or you _still_ don’t believe I can read.”

Her laugh was a little late, and a little too weak. “Right. Anyway.” With a wave, she hurried back to her corner of the common room, where her friends had clustered.

“Weird,” James muttered. “Check where Remus and Sirius are, would you? We should tell them about this—” he flapped the rules at Peter “—and start getting people to sign up.”

“Right now?” Peter went pale once more.

“Yes,” James said very slowly. “Right now. What would we wait for, the stars to align? Come on, Wormtail.”

“I’ve got homework.”

“Then we’ll need Moony. For fuck’s sake, give me the map.”

Peter handed it over. The other two Marauders were in the dormitory, it seemed. James bounced to his feet and made for the stairs, and Peter, left with no other choice, trailed behind.

Remus was fiddling with the boys’ record player, skipping through tracks on an unfamiliar album. Sirius was at the window, which was cracked ajar, smoking.

“Please exhale through it, not inside the room,” Remus was complaining. “I don’t want to be cold _and_ have to smell it.”

“You’re the fussiest person I know,” Sirius said, but blew out a stream of smoke into the evening air.

“We’ve fixed the Apparition problem,” announced James, tossing the parchment into the centre of the rug. It floated down, and Remus scooted closer to study it. “We’ll play in wizarding London only, and impose a check-in. Transportation and houses are still safe zones. Done.”

Sirius — the hand that held the cigarette angled outside the window still — craned his neck to get a look at the parchment. “That could work.”

“And I’ll figure out a way to cast a delayed Protean, since the July full moon is on a Friday,” James said. “I think that’s the plan finished, so we can set it in motion.”

“Did you and Peter come up with that?” Remus was squinting at the parchment.

“We asked Evans.” James flopped onto his bed.

He was pretending to stare at the ceiling, so his friends did not think he noticed them exchange a glance. (He did.) Remus rolled his eyes and looking at the carpet. Peter grew red. Sirius looked very calm. His suspicions were thus confirmed.

“You’re acting like someone died,” James said into the silence. “But all right, since everyone’s in the mood to listen to me at last, I can ask my question. Do you lot want to tell me what’s going on with you and her?”

“With _us_ and her?” Peter repeated, his voice going up about two octaves.

James put his hands behind his head. “That’s exactly what I said, isn’t it? You’re being weird, and it’s getting dull.”

“It was a bad idea from the start,” Remus said quietly.

“It was Padfoot’s idea,” added Peter quickly.

“Et tu?” Sirius said, looking not very bothered at having been sold out.

“Obviously it was,” said James. His annoyance, which had been at a low simmer, was now slowly building higher. “What was the plan, Padfoot?”

Sirius shrugged. “You tell us what’s going on. You were weird all Easter. I’m not sitting around and letting you get — _weird_ about her again—”

“Eloquent,” James said.

“—shut up, you know exactly what I mean—”

“You were the one who told me to ask Marissa out,” James realised aloud.

Sirius shrugged once more. “And so what? I was right about it being a good idea.”

What was most galling about his best friend, James thought, was how he never admitted when he was in the wrong.

He threw his hands up in frustration. “I don’t know what you think you’re stopping!”

“Well, what happened over Easter?” Sirius said again.

“Fucking _nothing,_ which you’d know if you’d bothered to ask me instead of behaving like we’re twelve years old— like I’m an absolute headcase who can’t think things through around her—”

“Well,” said Remus.

James glared at him. “That’s not funny.”

“We didn’t want anything to happen to you,” said Peter timidly.

James almost felt sorry at the look on his face. But then he said, coldly, “You didn’t want her to, what, seduce me? Evil Lily Evans, yeah?” He glanced back at an impassive Sirius. “Christ. Her mum fucking _died._ Act like you’ve got some decency.” 

“You’re right,” Remus said finally, “we shouldn’t have.”

“I know I’m right.” James sat up, considering his friends. Then he stood and made for the door.

“The idea—” Peter began.

“Later,” said James curtly. “I’m angry with you lot.”

“Because...you still fancy her?”

All three of them looked at him, expectant. James was sick of this conversation; he _remained_ sick of this conversation.

“Because you give me about as much credit as if my brain were in my prick.” He yanked the door open and took the stairs two at a time. He had homework to do, and the sun would set soon, but he wanted to fly first.

* * *

_viii. Monday / Fall Apart_

Dorcas stared at the letter, her mother’s neat penmanship blurring before her eyes. She was not crying, not quite. She was shocked to numbness. She didn’t understand…she _couldn’t_ understand how this had happened.

“You’re frightening me,” Mary said, snatching the letter from his grip.

Doe startled to life. “Give it back, Mare.”

“Not until I make sure everything’s all right!” Mary scanned it, and when she’d reached the salient part her mouth made a small O.

“I don’t understand,” Doe said. Vocalising her confusion did, in fact, help.

“Neither do I,” said Mary, frowning. “They don’t say _why_ they want you to withdraw your application.”

“They do,” Doe said automatically. “Look, see— they’re not comfortable with me working for the Ministry now.”

Mary smoothed out the letter and, moving plates and saucers aside, squashed it on the table between herself and Doe. “You know _that’s_ not what I mean. They were comfortable with it when you applied, weren’t they?”

“Yes,” Doe said, drawing out the word. 

Her father had read her application over Easter. _They’d have to be stupid not to pick you,_ he’d said when he was done, patting her on the back.

 _Stupid to think I wouldn’t be very good at fetching coffee?_ she’d teased.

_Of course. You fetch me coffee every morning, dove, and I can send in a recommendation if you want._

“So what changed?” Mary mused.

Doe ignored this unanswerable question — the question at the heart of it all. “But I need Ministry connections if I want to become an Auror,” she said, more to herself than to Mary. “And I don’t have those. Marlene McKinnon’s dad is a Hit Wizard. Frank Longbottom’s whole family have been diplomats. And Alice St. Martin told me Flitwick spoke personally to the DMLE for her—”

Mary squeezed her hand. “Deep breaths. McGonagall could talk to the DMLE for you, I’m sure she would — or Thorpe, even—”

“But I don’t understand!” Doe burst out. “It’s not as if I woke up one morning and told them about this — I’d been planning to apply since December, and I _told_ them—”

“Well, there’s only one explanation, isn’t there?” Mary said, gentle but firm. “Something’s changed since then. Something they’ve only just found out about, and now they don’t want you there.”

“But why can’t they tell me?”

Mary shrugged. “Only they can answer that. Write them back.”

Doe froze, then grabbed the rolled-up copy of the _Prophet_ that had come in for her. Pushing her plate away, she shook out the paper. Alec Rosier’s disgusting brother was wanted for questioning about something or the other, as was a wizard named Antonin Dolohov. Investigators Hartwick and Podmore had finished initial evidence-gathering in the Hogsmeade case, having recovered most of the objects they’d been looking for. The killer or killers were still on the loose… _Obviously,_ Doe thought, _if you didn’t catch them._

But nothing major about the Ministry. The Wizengamot began its Whitsun recess on Thursday, and near as Doe could tell that was the most important political news of the day. This was the last break the parliamentary body would take before its summer session. 

“Anything?” Mary said, peering over her shoulder.

Doe sighed and folded up the _Prophet._ “Absolutely nothing.”

Mary wrapped an arm around her. “If you don’t want to write them to rescind your application, I’ll do it for you.”

“We’re supposed to hear back on Wednesday. What’s the point?” But Doe already knew she didn’t want to know whether she’d got the position or not. It would only frustrate her.

“Then I’ll burn the letter for you,” Mary suggested.

Despite herself, Doe chuckled. “You’re a good friend, Mare.”

Mary’s smile was a rare sincere one, not in the least sardonic. “I try.”

“Lily! Lily, hang on—” Remus lengthened his stride and caught up with the witch in question in a few moments.

“Patrols tonight, I haven’t forgotten,” she said, smiling.

He returned the smile. “Yes, but that’s not what I’m here about. It’s Agape Macnair.”

A flash of concern crossed Lily’s face. 

“Nothing’s happened,” said Remus quickly. “But Sirius remembered about her family. He didn’t realise right away because her dad’s persona non grata, apparently — he married a Muggle. He never knew Agape, because Macnair was shunned for it.”

Lily grew thoughtful, grave. “The daughter of a blood traitor, then. That’s why she’s been bullied.”

“The others are like her too. Not names quite so well-known, but all half-blooded.”

It gave him a chill just to think about. It felt purposeful. Targeted. And if the pattern was a little less obvious than when Muggleborns were being attacked, what was the point they were trying to make?

When would they make it?

“Bloody Rosier,” Lily muttered. “Well, thank you, Remus. And thank Sirius for me too.” 

Her gaze was meaningful; Remus avoided it. All it did was remind him of James storming out of the dorm. Had he imagined it, or had James looked at him with more judgment than the others? He, Remus, was meant to be the boys’ conscience, after all. He should have known better.

But whose secrets was he supposed to keep, amongst the four of them? That wasn’t fair either. Sirius had expected him to choose between them and Lily, not realising it was also a choice between him and James. And Remus couldn’t well _choose._ Not when his friends risked their lives for him every month. And as much as he worried what Lily would think of him, too, he held onto the foolish hope that had pushed him towards the Marauders in the first place: maybe they would not mind what he was.

There he was, wondering if Lily would ever trust him if she knew the truth, when it was patently clear that she should not. He’d lied to her already.

“I will,” Remus said heavily. 

To his dismay, Lily’s brow furrowed in concern. “Is everything all right? I know— I mean, I’ve heard James and Sirius had an argument or something—”

Gossip travelled faster than anything at this school. 

“They did,” Remus admitted, “but they’ll be all right as soon as Sirius admits he made a mistake.”

She was watching him very carefully. “It’s not like last year’s fight, is it?”

He shook his head. “Oh, Merlin, no. Not at all. That was—” _Worse,_ so much worse. 

She nodded, and he cut himself off before he could say something incriminating.

“That was...the situation with Severus, wasn’t it?” said Lily.

“I-It was…”

“You know something,” she said suddenly, “I think friendship is about forgiveness. And the cliff’s edge is where you can’t forgive, nor understand. I think that’s where friendship ends.”

Remus knew, intellectually, that she was thinking of herself and Snape. Still the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, anxiety clotting like a bad taste in the back of his mouth. Lily whirled to face him, grabbing his arm.

“Oh, Remus, the look on your face!” She clapped a hand to her forehead. “I don’t mean _you.”_

He laughed shakily. “No, of course not…”

“I’m so sorry. You’re free to give back as good as you got.”

“No, don’t worry, I’m fine—”

“Any reassurance only makes me worried that you’re not.” She studied him, and Remus, fidgeting, managed not to look away. “It’s not because of James and Sirius, is it?”

“It’s _not,”_ Remus said emphatically. 

“Then you needn’t worry. They’re as good as married, and I have no intention of getting rid of you either.” Lily smiled and elbowed him in the ribs gently. “And I would be very sad if you tried to get rid of me. I’d understand, maybe—”

“Why on earth,” he said, “would I want to do that?”

It was Lily’s turn to look uncomfortable. “The same reason Sirius is doing it, I suppose. Easter, and James—” She grimaced, and looked down at the floor.

“I told you. Sirius is being a first-class idiot. And it’ll stop.” He hesitated. “I should’ve made him stop sooner.”

She shifted her weight from foot to foot and looked away, which made him think she agreed on that point.

“It’s not easy standing up to your friends,” Lily said simply. “Still, I appreciate you giving me advice, earlier, instead of telling me I was the slaggiest, worst person you know—”

Remus blinked at this whiplash. “You— Why on _earth_ would I think that, much less tell you that?”

She laughed humourlessly; he thought he could see tears welling up in her eyes. “Or maybe you didn’t know, and that was why— James said he didn’t tell anyone—”

Foreboding washed over him. “Tell anyone what?”

They were in a quiet section of the fourth floor; the staircase leading to the fifth had reoriented itself, and the pair had stopped to wait for it to move once more. It always did, and the way to Gryffindor Tower was never blocked off for long. Lily studied the staircase as if she could will it to move.

“Tell anyone we kissed,” she said, her voice small.

Remus looked at the staircase too, wondering if he might fling himself off the landing. So Sirius’s enigmatic certainty — James’s frustration, the awkwardness between James and Lily that had persisted into April — on the other hand… _James said he didn’t tell anyone._ And he had insisted too firmly that nothing had happened, just yesterday, which meant that more than one person had gravely misunderstood the state of things.

No, he couldn’t go flinging himself off anything. Remus put a hand on Lily’s shoulder — she had turned away from him after this confession — and stepped around to face her.

“You’re mistaken,” he said gently. “If that’s what you’ve been beating yourself up about, you can stop, Lily.”

She frowned up at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we were all very drunk, and I think you have the wrong idea. I don’t think you did anything.”

The only way to get through this without collapsing from the embarrassment was fixing his gaze on hers. She was really, truly upset, Remus reminded himself. Bad enough that he had, however unknowingly, made sure she’d been upset for even longer than she should have. 

“But I don’t…” Lily trailed off, looking away.

“Did James tell you you’d — that something happened?”

“No, but — he implied it.”

The more he considered it the more convinced he grew. There was not a chance in the world that James had kissed Lily and kept it a secret — or that he’d gone on to ask Marissa out as if nothing had happened. Remus believed in few things as much as his friend’s sense of personal honour.

“I think you’re misreading him, then. Look, I know it’s embarrassing, but you should ask him.”

“But—”

“I’m quite sure,” Remus said, putting up a hand to silence her. “And you can take me at my word. But if you’d rather be one hundred percent certain, there’s only one way to know.”

A low groan split the air; the staircase creaked up to the fifth floor. When the grinding noise had stopped, Remus gestured for Lily to go first. They walked the rest of the way to the portrait in silence.

* * *

_ix. Tuesday / Competition_

James had sent around new diagrams of plays. Germaine studied the scribbles with a frown; his paranoia meant each diagram came with an unlocking spell, but in her opinion they looked just as illegible encoded as they did deciphered.

She didn’t have to learn the plays by heart, since they were chiefly Chaser- and Beater-centric. If she wasn’t prepared for the odd Bludger on Saturday, though, it would be her head on the line.

As in, James would decapitate her after the Bludger did.

“Those look like quite the plans.”

 _“Abscondo,”_ Germaine blurted, flipping over the sheets for good measure. Her heart gave a similar flop at the figure standing above her: Emmeline, her grey eyes friendly, her severe face framed by wisps of hair that had escaped her French plait.

“I had my eyes up,” Emmeline assured her.

Germaine crossed her arms over her chest. “Groovy for you.”

“Groovy,” Emmeline echoed. “I wanted to wish you good luck. I know things have been odd lately, no thanks to me—” The faintest blush appeared on her cheeks.

Whatever trick this was, Germaine didn’t have to sit around and endure it. “If Fawcett’s moved onto psychological torture as intimidation, he’ll have to do better,” she said, rolling up the plays and getting to her feet. She’d been looking forward to taking in the courtyard’s fresh air, but Gryffindor Tower’s safety trumped all other concerns.

At her words, however, Emmeline looked — wounded?

“I didn’t realise just speaking to me was psychological torture,” she said slowly.

Germaine squashed the seed of pity she felt down, far, _far_ below. _Emmeline Vance_ was not the victim here. And all she could think was how to hit her where it hurt — so that she could feel how Germaine had felt in February.

“I didn’t realise what a joke this all was to you,” Germaine said in an undertone, “but don’t worry, I’ve figured it out. I may not be as clever as you, but I can put two and two together.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Emmeline replied, her uncertainty hardening into defensiveness.

Germaine rolled her eyes. “Then get a clue, Vance. Maybe while you and Amelia Bones are coming up with horrible things to say about me to my own friends.”

Emmeline’s jaw dropped. Germaine did not wait for her to come up with a rebuttal; she adjusted the scrolls in her arms and strode off as fast as her legs could take her. Screw nervousness. She could go find the rest of her team, and tell Isobel Park that she had decided trundling was a waste of time after all.

* * *

_x. Wednesday / Judgment Day_

“Are you certain you don’t want to read it anyway?” Lily asked, not for the first time. The two envelopes sat on her bed, and she sat cross-legged behind them. 

Dorcas paced the carpet. “I’m certain. Oh, Lily, just open them, we’re going to be late for Transfi—”

“No, we’re not,” Lily assured her. “Which one first?”

“Yours,” said Doe at once.

She picked up the envelope addressed to her and worked it open. The process was more difficult than she’d anticipated, and finally Lily gave up on trying to do it neatly. She pulled out the folded letter, discarding the shredded envelope. She took a deep breath, and opened it.

 _Dear Miss Evans,_ it read, _Thank you for your application. We had a great deal of interested applicants for the Wizengamot’s summer session, and unfortunately we—_ Lily stopped reading and folded the letter back up.

“What does it say?” Dorcas asked, breathless. But she took in Lily’s expression with one glance, and her excitement morphed into sympathy. “Oh, Lil, I’m so sorry…”

“It’s all right,” Lily said smoothly, so automatically that she wasn’t sure if it was the truth, a lie, or more reflex than anything else. “It’s fine, I’ll probably have plenty to do over summer anyway, with Petunia and everything…”

She jammed the letter back into its envelope and set it down again, smoothing down her rumpled robes. Not everything could go her way. That was part of life, wasn’t it? And yet a small voice in the back of her mind was already whispering, _didn’t I deserve this thing, this one little thing?_

It wasn’t about deserving. She didn’t deserve plenty of bad things that had happened to her anyway, and she probably didn’t deserve some of the good things too.

“Well, maybe we’ll find out why Mum and Dad changed their minds, and then you’ll be happier to not have the job,” said Doe. Then she wilted a little. “I know you’d have liked the option anyway.”

Lily smiled. “I would’ve.” She picked up the second letter. “You’re certain I won’t give it away?”

“I trust your poker face,” Doe assured her.

She ripped at the envelope again, pulled out the letter again. Then she set it down.

“Want me to keep it for you?”

The idea had been this: Doe did not want to know herself if she’d been offered an internship, but if someone else knew then years from now she could be reminded, in a slump or a bad mood, that she’d managed it. And if she hadn’t got the internship, she could laugh about it years from now as a trained Auror.

Doe considered her question a moment. “No, I don’t think so. I trust you, after all.”

Lily nodded. Her own rejection letter she stowed away in her mostly-empty trunk. Then she gathered up Doe’s letter — looked at it one last time, read _Dear Miss Meadowes, Congratulations! We are so pleased to offer you…_ — and the two envelopes, and, with a wave of her wand, incinerated them. 

* * *

_xi. Thursday / The Joke_

Agape Macnair. Belinda Ricci. Colin O’Neill. Elena Kaczperski. They were all half-bloods. _I think you’re mistaken… Speak to James…_ The five properties of Snakesap, when used in a love potion… What was the opposite of a love potion, anyway? Hate potion had a ring to it, but it was more accurately indifference, Lily thought. A look-away potion, of sorts. Snakesap, newt’s eye, candytuft…

Oh, bother, _that_ wasn’t the essay she was supposed to be writing. Lily grimaced and read over what she’d last put down. _The five properties of Snakesap are,_ she’d begun, which was a very uninventive way of starting an essay. Not that she needed filler, but it helped to have a better-constructed introduction than that.

“The Macnair girl’s dad is a—”

“Blood traitor,” Lily finished, concentrating on her parchment. “I know. Remus told me.”

 _Go away,_ she thought. _Go away, because if you stick around I have no excuse for not asking you about Easter._

James, unsurprisingly, did not heed her silent command. “Oh, good. Then you’re up to speed. I talked Flitwick into letting me into the Restricted Section, so I’ll have that Charms book out tomorrow.”

“And leaf through one thousand and one levitation spells looking for what Regulus was reading?” Lily murmured. “How, exactly, are you going to figure it out?”

“I’ll get to that when I get to it,” James said, shrugging.

“Good of you to—” _Contrary to what its name suggests, Snakesap is not collected from snakes…_ “—update me.”

Silence.

“Right, what’ve I done to deserve the cold shoulder?” 

“It’s not the cold shoulder,” said Lily. “It’s the lukewarm shoulder. It’s perfectly neutral. I have an essay to write.” She tapped her quill to the parchment.

James did not budge. _“Déjà vu,”_ he intoned. “This feels very fifth year.”

“I’m pretty sure that phrase only applies to things that _didn’t_ actually happen,” Lily said drily.

“Oh, good, we’re still on joking terms,” James said, equally dry.

“Really, Potter, I should get this done.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Potter, is it? Fifth year again. Are you sure we don’t have something to talk about?”

She startled; it felt like a taunt, only, if Remus was right there was nothing for him to mock her about. It struck Lily with the force of a proper epiphany — what was the worst that could happen? It was a simple question, and they could talk about it like adults and laugh about it later. The rejection letter had been a kick while she was already down.

Surely life would not — could not — kick her again.

Lily set the quill down. “Fine, we do. Not here.” She looked pointedly at the crowded common room.

James arched an eyebrow. “That wasn’t what I was expecting. But all right. Outside, in the corridor?”

Well, there wasn’t really a better option. Lily said, “All right,” and left her essay at the desk, leading the way through the portrait-hole.

The drafty hall was something of a relief after the warm near-claustrophobic press of the common room. Lily stepped outside and looked, _really_ looked like she hadn’t in years, at the portraits arranged like puzzle pieces across the walls. Some of them were asleep already, others engaged in their own portraity business. She imagined that to them, she and James looked like a portrait too, a little scene in action. 

_Rip off the plaster,_ she thought, and then, _it worked with Dex, didn’t it?_

“Did we kiss, that night over Easter?”

Lily turned round after the question had been asked. It might as well have been a third person in the empty corridor. James’s eyes were wide. His mouth had fallen open slightly, the sort of unconscious expression of surprise that compelled people around you to say _close your mouth, you’ll catch flies._

“Did we— _No._ No, of course we didn’t,” he said, looking at the ceiling.

“Oh.” Her shoulders sagged, and she felt profoundly stupid. Weeks of agonising, all put at ease with one simple question. She ought to have taken Mary’s advice all along. “I thought that something— that—”

The memory looked like this moment, in fact. Both of them, alone. Quiet. But — no, that wasn’t true. There had been a sense of comfort then that could not be duplicated. Alcohol, maybe; maybe something else. Companionship strengthened by grief.

The golden lamplight, catching the mess of James’s hair. The feel of his hand on her face. Surely she hadn’t imagined _all_ of it? But it had become a messy grey area now — because it hadn’t been a kiss, but it had been...it had been… Lily remembered, in a sudden, startling rush, the dangling string of a loose thought. _I want him to._

But the James in front of her now was wearing an expression of increasing horror.

“ _Something?”_ he repeated. “No. Nothing _happened._ Merlin.” He ran a hand through his hair, paced in a little circle. “You and Sirius both, honestly—”

Something. Nothing. The brief little _I want him to_ felt more and more like a nugget of shame. A stab of humiliation.

Nothing happened. The brush of his lips against her cheek. Nothing.

She felt at once the weight of multiple realisations, but she hadn’t the chance to consider them, because James was speaking again.

“You’ve thought this for — over a month? Why didn’t you _say_ anything?” He spread his hands, agitation making him more animated.

Indignant, though she knew she ought not to be, Lily said, “But I did! That day, after the — the diary, and the Astronomy Tower—”

He half-laughed, half-scoffed. “You didn’t—”

“Well, you said not to make it weird—”

James ran a hand through his hair again, less of a casual tic and more of a frantic one. “Oh, _seriously,_ you said nothing about a kiss! Why didn’t you speak plain bloody English, and not code I had to decipher?”

She realised he was angry, really properly angry. She couldn’t understand why — not when she had been the one guilt-ridden and nervous since April — and it only made _her_ angry too. Right, because she owed him transparency, while he never felt he should explain anything he said or did, because he, James Potter, was mysterious and unknowable, and she, Lily Evans, was a joke.

“You said it was fine and in the past and irrelevant and—”

Lily could feel herself coming face-to-face with the heart of the matter. How long had she been circling it? It would not be stopped, not this time.

“—and you never fancied me, so it wasn’t as though it meant anything!”

A series of unreadable expressions crossed his face. He said nothing. Lily felt ill. It was not comeuppance; it was not petty satisfaction. It was a train collision in excruciating slow motion.

“James? You didn’t, did you?” she said quietly.

She knew what she wanted him to say; she knew what she had believed...but she knew now it was not the truth. The only question was whether or not he would tell her the same lie anyway.

 _I don’t,_ like he’d said on the Astronomy Tower. Why would he—

James laughed once more, this time sharply. “You’re seriously thick, for the smartest person I know.”

She shook her head. “That’s not—”

But he was not finished. She could pinpoint the exact moment defiance took hold of him; he seemed to stand a little taller, his chin tilted up, his eyes narrowed. _No,_ she wanted to say, _I’m sorry I asked. Don’t say it._

“If you think,” he said, “I’d give you a throwaway kiss, one that meant absolutely nothing — one that would wreck your head, not to mention your relationship — when you were too sloshed to know any better — you—” James shook his head, his _ha!_ echoing through the corridor.

“And you expect me to believe— Look, either you think I’m a terrible person, or you _do_ know, don’t you? All along, you knew.”

“James,” said Lily haltingly, “I really—” _Really don’t mean to hurt you,_ she wanted to say. _Friendships end on a cliff, and we’re not there. Not for me, anyway._

“Of _course_ you knew,” he burst out. “Isn’t it obvious?” 

His frustration was now almost a sneer. The look on his face — _keep up, Evans, how could you_ not _realise, how could you be so thick_ — suddenly made her angry all over again.

“Obvious?” she repeated shrilly, planting her hands on her hips. “You have a girlfriend — and you _told_ me you didn’t think of me that way.” She sucked in a breath, another horrible realisation coming to her. 

“This past year, you being nice to me,” Lily said. “Were you just trying to get close to me? Because you liked me?”

For a moment Lily thought she’d really hurt him. Not infuriated him, which she did often, but _hurt_ him. But the expression was shuttered away so quickly that the thought disappeared with it. 

James drew himself up to his full height. “Fuck you, all right?”

She flinched. In a low voice she said, “That is _not_ fair. You can’t lie to me, then get angry at me for believing you.”

“It’s my fault now!”

She couldn’t _believe_ him. “Yes, it is! It _is_ your fault, and you know I’m right. You—” She pressed a hand to her temple. _“God,_ you asked me out in front of everyone and you — you _meant_ it, didn’t you?”

He had the grace to look ashamed at this, at least. “You know I’m sorry about that,” he mumbled, the trace of anger still audible in his voice.

Lily scoffed. “Do I know? I don’t remember you apologising!”

“Would that even help? Because I’m always in the wrong,” he shot back. “That’s how it is, with us, yeah? Well, don’t get too excited. Because I’m past that bullshit, and you can clear me right off your conscience.”

 _Good,_ she wanted to snap in return, but— “Don’t _do_ that, all right? Throw it in my face like I’m supposed to enjoy your suffering — we _are_ friends!”

Those last words lingered in the air like sparks from spells. Lily had intended it to be a statement, but she realised it was a question. 

James’s jaw was clenched so tight it must have been physically painful. _“You_ think I spent this year trying to get in your knickers.”

Lily searched for a response. The question had been indelicate, but not unwarranted! At least, she didn’t think so. Not when he’d asked her out in front of their whole year, not when… Her throat constricted. She replayed the Easter night over again in her mind, and found that it faded like so much smoke the more she considered it.

The longer she stayed silent, the colder he grew. James said, “We are _not_ friends. Not at all.”

He muttered the password to the quietly rapt Fat Lady and disappeared back into the tower. Lily stood there a few minutes longer. They had, perhaps, been closer to the cliff’s edge that she’d realised.

* * *

_xii. Friday / The House Cup_

It was nearly eight o’clock on Friday night. The library would close soon. Madam Pince shooed away the students nestled in its aisles. For once she did not have to take care of clearing out the Restricted Section, as Professor Thorpe had made good on her promise: she had set up shop outside the velvet rope every lunchtime, free period, and evening. 

In fact, thanks to Thorpe Madam Pince hadn’t been near the Restricted Section all day. The two women were happier that way, having come to an uneasy stalemate about the organisation of the Defence Against the Dark Arts section. 

Pince did not see the small blonde Gryffindor skirting the shelves — and the librarian — to make for the Restricted Section. Margaret Bailey thought that telling the DADA professor it was time to close up might earn her five points or so. It was a measly amount, all things considered, but little things added up to the House Cup, didn’t they?

The torchlight had dimmed, but Margaret was undaunted. _“Lumos,”_ she whispered, and carried her lit wand ahead of her as she walked.

Thorpe was not at the table she had occupied all week. The rope barring the way to the Restricted Section had toppled over. 

Margaret kept going, her heart thudding in her ears. “Professor Thorpe?” she said, her voice wavering where her stride did not. 

The books around her were rustling — as if in reaction to her presence, as if _angered_ by it. That did not make sense, did it? Books were meant to be used by students. They would not hurt her. She belonged here.

Well, sort of. Maybe they could sense she didn’t have a permission slip.

Margaret squared her shoulders. “Professor Thorpe?”

A faint light dribbled out through the stacks and she hurried in that direction. It came from a little white globe, like the kind Professor McGonagall had conjured to light the Quidditch pitch during a long match. 

_“Nox,”_ Margaret said. Then she looked down the aisle. Her fingers loosened. Her wand clattered to the floor.

* * *

_xiii. Saturday / Traitor_

Two weeks before, the Great Hall had been abuzz with news about Lily Evans duelling Alec Rosier in a corridor. Several variants of the story had gone around by breakfastime — that Rosier had hurled a string of slurs at Lily, that she had goaded him into attacking, that both had sported tentacles Madam Pomfrey had needed to get rid of. 

Now the Great Hall was quiet, fear acting as the most effective blanket of all. The story had spread easily, but correctly, because it had been told to the students. Around nine o’clock Marissa Beasley and Colin Rollins had been summoned to speak with Dumbledore and McGonagall. Just as they had in January, the Head Boy and Girl had gone house to house, warning the prefects.

The prefects had known, this time, that something was wrong. Each head of house arrived soon after. McGonagall’s stern expression was tempered by a vulnerability that had made her students want to look away, to give her a private moment. 

“Thank you, prefects, for assembling the house,” McGonagall said. Her voice was grave, but steady. There was no immediate danger, then. The students relaxed a little. “Please follow me to the Great Hall. You will sleep there tonight.”

At that the Gryffindors tensed again, exchanging glances of worry and shock.

“What’s happened, Professor?” asked Janie Muldoon, a seventh-year prefect.

“A teacher has been hurt,” was all McGonagall would say. “It is safer for us all to be in one place.”

Never had Gryffindor House moved in a procession so solemn. It struck a stark contrast to how the students bounded up the stairs to their tower after the Start-of-Term Feast, running ahead despite prefects’ weary warnings. Now the prefects ringed the rest of their house, and those who had had the presence of mind to bring their wands had a firm grip on them.

The Gryffindors arrived last to a hall cleared of tables and full of sleeping bags. McGonagall directed them to one corner. By unspoken agreement the younger students were allowed to pass to the far end of the Great Hall, and older students chose spaces nearer the door.

As Mary Macdonald and Germaine King prepared their sleeping bags, Dorcas Walker and Lily Evans sat upright, watching the cluster of teachers by the doors. 

No Dumbledore, but certainly _he_ could not have been attacked; it was inconceivable. No Flitwick, but McGonagall had bustled out as soon as she had left her students; possibly the Charms professor was attending to something too? Professor Thorpe was absent as well, but like Flitwick there was a plausible explanation for that. Of the Auror group, Alice St. Martin and Gareth Greer stood at either end of the room. Edgar Bones paced the width of the entrance with great concentration.

Doe scanned the Great Hall. “Who do you think it is?” she whispered to Lily.

Lily shook her head slowly. “I couldn’t say. But the Ravenclaws would know if it was Flitwick—”

The Ravenclaws looked no more or less worried than the rest of the students. 

“The Marauders will know, because of that map they’ve got,” Doe said.

A shadow crossed Lily’s face. “Probably.”

“I can ask them.”

Dumbledore strode into the Great Hall before Doe could find the boys.

The headmaster had been brief, and much of what he’d said had already been conveyed to the students from their heads of house. But he did tell them Professor Thorpe was the injured one. He did tell them her condition was serious, and that she would be transported to St. Mungo’s in the morning. He did tell them the consequences for who had done this would be very serious. He did tell them it had been Dark magic.

“She argued with Rosier’s brother, in the Three Broomsticks on Saturday,” Doe murmured.

“Rosier’s brother’s supposed to have fled the country,” Lily said.

Dumbledore told them to rest. Once he’d left, the remaining teachers began to hush any students still chatting. So they slept.

And when they woke, they returned to their houses in batches supervised by prefects. Lily slept later than most, and startled when she saw the Great Hall’s stormy ceiling above. Students were magicking away the sleeping bags, some still in nightclothes and others dressed and seated at one or two tables that had been moved back into place. In her half-asleep state Lily noticed that the tables were not divided by house, and it was strange to see students — though not in uniform as it was a weekend — in the Great Hall in jarringly different groups.

She rolled to her other side. Mary was sitting on top of her sleeping bag, clearly waiting for her.

“Doe and Germaine went to change and wash up,” she said. “They should be back soon, and then we can get a new group.”

“I should be helping—” Lily scrambled upright just as their friends returned. 

“It’s official,” Germaine said by way of greeting, “they’ve called off Quidditch. Not that that’s the most important thing, but, well, it’s the latest.” She nodded towards the teachers’ table, where James and Stephen Fawcett could be seen conversing with McGonagall and Madam Hooch.

“Is Fawcett actually complaining?” Doe’s face twisted in disgust.

“We win by default,” Germaine explained. “Only unbeaten team this year.”

“Priorities.”

“Can we go upstairs?” Mary said. “My mouth tastes awful.”

Lily nodded. To Doe and Germaine she said, “Save us seats if you can.” As she walked down the row of Gryffindor sleeping bags, she scraped her hair into a ponytail. “Gryffindors, if you’d like to change and wash up, come with me.”

It took a few minutes of waiting at the door for them to amass a small group — a trio of fourth years, Isobel Park and another seventh-year girl, and a tiny, trembling first year. Isobel and her friend brought up the rear, leaving Lily to lead with Mary a half-step behind her. They had walked in silence for some time before the tension finally dissipated, and everyone began to whisper to one another. 

“What’s your name?” Mary asked the first year.

“Bobby,” he whispered. “Bobby Trent.”

“Hi, Bobby Trent, I’m Mary Macdonald. This is Lily Evans. You doing all right?”

Lily had not seen Mary interact with a younger student before, except once when she had told off a fifth year for staring at her chest. She was surprised at this result — Mary was blunt as usual, but not unfriendly. It was easy to forget that she had a younger brother.

“Fine,” Bobby said. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he added, “My friend’s not here.”

“Where’s your friend?” said Lily kindly.

“Professor McGonagall told us last night not to worry. All the first years, I mean. But she told me to — to tell a prefect to get her things.”

Lily and Mary exchanged worried looks over Bobby’s head.

“What’s your friend’s name? We’ll get them,” Mary said.

“Margaret,” said Bobby.

Lily sucked in a breath. “I know her.”

“You do?” said Mary, surprised.

“Yeah, we met at the Welcome Feast — and again a few days ago.” Lily frowned, wondering how the girl was involved, if she’d been hurt. With conviction she wasn’t sure she had, she said, “If McGonagall says she’s all right, then I’m sure she is.”

Bobby nodded uncertainly.

 _“Non ducor, duco,”_ Lily told the Fat Lady.

“Take care, my dears,” the portrait said as she swung open.

Lily instructed everyone to meet back in the common room in twenty minutes, and quietly told the fourth-year boys to make sure Bobby was all right. She and Mary reemerged in thirteen, having bathed in record time and already gathered up books in case they would need to be in the Great Hall for a while. Then they made for the first-year girls’ dormitory.

“When he said _pack her things,_ did he mean everything?” Mary whispered as they descended the stairs.

Lily heard the subtext. “Margaret couldn’t have hurt Professor Thorpe. She’s not going to be expelled.”

“Well, my question still stands.”

They needn’t have worried, in any case. Another first year was in the dormitory, and she seemed far less timid — though no less afraid — than Bobby. 

“She’s had a shock,” the girl said, “and they’re sending her home for the weekend.”

Mary and Lily had looked for a book bag or a rucksack and turned up empty; in the end Lily had run up to get one of her own and filled it with changes of clothes, Margaret’s toothbrush, and various things her roommate claimed were important. 

“A shock,” Mary muttered as they left the room. “Did she...find Thorpe?”

Lily pressed her lips together. “I don’t know.”

But they were rejoined by the rest of their group then, and neither of them wanted to discuss the matter in front of Bobby. Lily spotted McGonagall in the Entrance Hall and told the others to go on without her; she could hardly be jumped in front of McGonagall’s eyes.

Then again, if Thorpe could be attacked, were all bets off?

She squared her shoulders and approached the Transfiguration teacher, her bag in hand. 

“Sorry to interrupt, I’ve brought Margaret’s things.” Lily smiled tightly at the people McGonagall had been speaking with — a man and a woman, the former with the shock of white-blonde hair that his daughter shared. 

Margaret was nestled so firmly against her parents’ sides that Lily hadn’t even noticed her.

“That’s not my bag,” said Margaret quietly.

“Say thank you, love,” her mother murmured.

“No, it’s mine,” Lily said. “I couldn’t find yours, but you can borrow it, it’s no trouble.”

She held the bag out. Margaret drifted her way and took it, slinging it over her shoulders.

“Thanks.” She was more subdued than Lily could have imagined her.

“No problem. Your friend told me to pack the Ice Mice.”

Margaret nearly smiled. “That’s good. I wouldn’t want them to go bad.”

Lily didn’t think they _could,_ but she withheld her opinion. Lowering her voice and turning away from the adults, she said, “If you want someone to write to, I don’t get many letters.”

Margaret’s expression grew cloudy with suspicion. “Really? You?”

She nodded. “My mum passed away in April, and my sister’s too busy to write me most days.” Too late she wondered if she should have mentioned death.

But the younger witch did not seem entirely put-off, though she made a face of sympathy. “I’ll write you, Lily.”

Margaret’s father took her by the arm. “Come on, Mags, we’ll miss the Portkey. Say goodbye.”

Lily raised a hand to wave, but to her surprise Margaret pulled her in for a hug. She closed her eyes, realising it was the first time she had said to anyone aloud that her mother was dead. 

“She was _floating,”_ Margaret whispered into her ear.

“What?” Lily pulled back, floored.

Margaret released her at once. Lily wanted to press, but McGonagall — and the girl’s parents — were watching. _Floating._ Blood roared in her ears; she hardly heard what was said between the teacher and the parents, hardly heard herself call goodbye one last time. 

She needed to eat, and she needed to think. And she needed to speak to James Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> so many of these plotlines have been a LONG time coming. i created thorpe knowing what would befall her at the end of the year, oops. others totally demanded to be included, e.g. my girl margaret bailey, who insisted on making a reappearance.
> 
> sorry, mags, i gave you trauma.
> 
> attentive readers will also notice regulus's prophecy has been fulfilled!
> 
> okay, i'm already late with this chapter because AO3!!!! gave me a server error after i had formatted EVERYTHING and now i'm sweaty from trying to recall all my notes and things without messing it up. that's all for now. leave a comment plz or a tumblr anon, because those are very good for my self esteem and that is directly related to quality, long updates
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	28. Priori Incantatem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Lily and James find something suspicious in the library ledgers. James realises the other Marauders are trying to play interference with him and Lily, and is ticked off. Lily's rejected by the Ministry summer intern program. Doe gets in, but her parents forbid her from going for mysterious reasons. Lily asks James if they kissed in April, and in the ensuing argument James confesses his feelings for her. Lily is angry he lied; James is angry she accused him of trying to get close to her because he was into her. Germaine argues with Emmeline, and tells her Amelia Bones said rude things about Germaine. Thorpe is brutally attacked, and the library books might help prove who did it. 
> 
> NOW: The sixth years tie up some loose ends as another year at Hogwarts comes to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Leave a comment if you love me! Listen along to the playlist, linked on my tumblr!

_i. Lucy in the Sky_

It was Wednesday, the 16th of June, 1976. Upstairs in Gryffindor Tower, the dormitories were full of the hubbub of students packing and bidding one another farewell. The common room was no less active: the seventh years had a Gobstones tournament going, and younger students often dashed up and down the staircases in search of forgotten books or wayward pets. 

Lily Evans was the lone fifth year in the room, sitting at a desk with a book in hand. A handwritten sign in front of her read _pack with a prefect!_ Ever since O.W.L.s had ended she had spent her spare time in a similar spot with the sign prominently displayed. It had taken a day or two of funny looks, but at last people had started to come to her for help finding lost objects as they packed.

She was glad for the work. It was much easier to tackle small, fixable problems than it was to think about the loss of her best friend.

Or, no, his betrayal, she mentally corrected. Because _he_ had wronged _her,_ and no amount of apology could undo that.

Could it?

She sighed. She had been rereading the same section of her book for fifteen minutes, unable to focus. Perhaps it was better she call it a night…

“My frog’s missing!” said a breathless second year, running up to her table. 

Lily had to stop herself from saying _oh, thank God._ “We’ll find it. What’s the frog’s— I mean, what’s your name?”

“Davey, and the frog’s Killer, and he’s my brother’s frog, he’ll kill me if Killer dies!”

Head spinning a little from all the would-be murderers, Lily murmured reassurance. She recognised the boy now. Last time Davey Gudgeon had attained some amount of notoriety, he’d been scratched-up and in the Hospital Wing, courtesy of the Whomping Willow. 

Yes, Severus had made some comment about the Willow, something about what it hid… Honestly, Lily couldn’t even remember how a tree was supposed to fit into his conspiracy theory about Remus Lupin. At least that was a benefit of all this, she reasoned, not having to argue that point again and again and _again…_

“D’you think it’s too much of a risk to just say _Accio_ Killer?” she said, forgetting for a moment to whom she was speaking.

Davey said, “What’s _Accio?”_

Second year, right. No Summoning Charms yet. 

“Never mind.” It wasn’t as though the charm would bring up an actual killer, anyway. So Lily tried it — and felt a funny tug of resistance, reminiscent of a Shield Charm.

“Someone’s got your frog, I think,” she said.

Davey looked aghast. “They’ve kidnapped Killer?!”

“No — wait — _they?”_

“What’m I gonna do? How am I supposed to get him back? D’you think they’ll want a ransom?”

Before Lily could very gently explain to this distraught thirteen-year-old that it was unlikely his frog would need to be ransomed, as it probably had not been kidnapped in the first place, someone tapped her on the shoulder.

She looked, and the first thing she saw was — up close and personal — a mottled, dark green frog, its yellow eyes baleful. Lily just about managed not to scream.

“Oh, grow up, Evans,” said James Potter rather genially, handing the frog to a relieved Davey. “He was in our dorm, but I recognised his markings,” he told the boy.

“You know what my frog looks like?” Davey said, breathless.

Lily rolled her eyes.

“Well, Remus recognised his markings,” Potter amended. “Same difference.”

Lily rolled her eyes again.

Davey skipped off after thanking the Marauder profusely. Lily whirled around and made for her sign once more.

“Ev— hey, slow down!”

She did not; she sat and picked up the book, holding it pointedly in front of her face. 

“Ah, c’mon, I wanted to talk—”

Lily dropped the book so quickly that he leapt backwards. “About what?” she snapped. “We have nothing to talk about. As I’ve tried to tell you all week.”

He huffed, as if she were the one being difficult. “About the Sni— the incident with You-Know-Who.”

“Very funny,” Lily said, “equate him to an evil—”

“That’s not what I meant!”

She slammed her book to the table, only afterwards remembering that it was Sara’s, and she ought to treat it more gently. “Either you’re really a git, or you’re constantly saying things _you don’t mean,_ and it’s up to the rest of us to infer your good intentions. And let me tell you, the latter has an expiry date.”

That mulish defensive look of his she was so used to had become more...thoughtful? 

“You and I both know you’re not a horrible person,” she said, surprised by her own admission. Not that the statement was false, or even remotely exaggerated, but she couldn’t believe she had said it aloud. He seemed just as surprised as she was. Lily continued, “So what I don’t understand is, why can’t you just be _good_ instead of trying to be insufferable?”

James shook his head, growing indignant again. “I would never have—”

“I don’t care what you wouldn’t have done.” She wanted to laugh — it was so _obvious_ to her, all of it; what couldn’t he understand? Or what did he see that she didn’t? “What matters is what you _do,_ and sometimes it’s just — it’s not nice, James!”

That, apparently, stumped him. Lily stopped to catch her breath, certain she looked pink and flustered and just as much of a mess as she’d endeavoured _not_ to look since their Defence Against the Dark Arts exam. Had she ever called him James before, to his face? She could practically hear Mary’s voice in her head, crooning about _James,_ and how he’d been _looking at her,_ and— Well, all that was neither here nor there.

Lily plucked the sign off the table and stood. “Excuse me,” she said, firm though not snippy. He did not try to stop her.

“Is Professor Thorpe— Will she be all right?” asked Lily softly, breaking the silence. 

She had been staring at the surface of Dumbledore’s desk, which was astonishingly clutter-free for a man who had accumulated all manner of instruments in his office. In its centre sat _One Thousand and One Ways to Fly,_ with all the sacred importance of the Holy Bible. 

James sat beside her, radiating restless energy. He was bouncing his knee. Lily wanted to tell him to stop, but to do so in front of Dumbledore and McGonagall felt wrong. Besides, he might continue just to annoy her.

“St. Mungo’s tells us her wounds will heal,” Dumbledore said, “but given the brutality of the attack — ‘all right’ might not be the right phrase.”

 _Wounds?_ Lily shifted in her chair, feeling faintly ill. Instinctively she looked to catch James’s eye, but he was looking at Dumbledore.

“And you’re sure that — Rosier and all of them, that they had nothing to do with it?” he said.

“We considered the same conclusion you and Miss Evans did, Mr. Potter,” said Dumbledore. “Although—” he inclined his head in their direction “—that does not take away from what you did, so swiftly bringing your suspicions and your evidence to my and Professor McGonagall’s attention. Twenty points each, don’t you think, Minerva?”

“Yes, but — you’re certain?” said James again. He hadn’t quite said _never mind the points,_ but the implication was clear.

It had taken them until lunchtime to approach the headmaster — and for Lily to successfully convince James not to go charging off to McGonagall right away. _Floating,_ Margaret had said Professor Thorpe had been floating… And certainly the book of levitation charms that Regulus had appeared so fascinated by would have contained numerous ways to accomplish such a thing. 

James had the book in his possession, but without more information about what, exactly, had happened to Thorpe, they had only the library ledgers to go by. Lily had known right away that it wasn’t enough, it could _not_ be enough. Why, it was supposition, and Avery and Rosier and Sebastian Selwyn were serving library bans. So where James had been dismayed by Dumbledore’s response, she had been surprised.

“Quite certain,” the headmaster said now. “It appears the specific curse used on Professor Thorpe was also used on Muggle-born students earlier this year, and Professor Slughorn suggested that Alec Rosier might know about it.”

“He—He did?” said Lily, taken aback. It seemed entirely unlike Slughorn to sell out one of his Slug Club set. Although, the notion should have been reassuring, that the professor would put his principles before his penchant for collecting students with influence.

“He did,” Dumbledore said. “Anthony Avery, Sebastian Selwyn, and Alec Rosier consented to a _Priori Incantatem_ test. None of them cast the spells required to incapacitate a witch as powerful as Professor Thorpe, let alone do her so much harm.”

“But, Regulus Black—” Lily began.

“I will speak to Regulus Black after I see you out,” Dumbledore said, nodding gravely. “But no one student could have done such a thing.”

“Marcus Rowle,” James supplied, “and Severus Snape. Ask them too.”

“Do you have any evidence, Potter?” said McGonagall, with the same gentleness she had shown Lily that day in detention.

“The evidence is that they’re evil little ba—” a glance at Dumbledore “—they’re obsessed with the Dark arts, Professor! If it’s their parents kicking up a fuss, you can tell them _I_ was the one who named them. I don’t care.” James had straightened as he spoke, growing more animated by the moment. “I’m not scared of the Blacks or the Rowles.”

“I doubt you are,” Dumbledore said seriously. “But parents are not your concern, Mr. Potter. They are mine, and I will deal with them as needed.” 

Lily straightened too, glancing between James — who was still not looking at her — and the two teachers. “What about Veritaserum?” she said haltingly. “I mean — I don’t think it’s right to coerce anyone into anything, but it’s— well, a teacher’s in hospital—”

“We are well aware of what needs to be done, Evans,” said McGonagall, sharply now.

But Dumbledore lifted a hand; a wordless look passed between them, and McGonagall gave a stiff nod. 

“You feel that the situation is unjust. It’s natural for you to ask about it — to demand remedy, even,” said Dumbledore. “The Ministry as well as the school’s Board of Governors must approve any use of Veritaserum, to answer your question. By the time we secured their approval, term would almost certainly be over.”

“So you’re giving up,” said James, his voice rising in volume. “Thorpe’s in St. Mungo’s, and you’re giving up?”

At last the headmaster’s expression of serenity gave way to something more pained. 

“It might appear that way,” he said quietly, “but all I can do is assure you we are not.” 

The ensuing silence was like a blanket of unseasonable snow. Lily tried not to imagine what Dumbledore had meant by wounds, and how that combined with levitation, and what Margaret must have seen…

“If that’s all,” said McGonagall, “I think you both ought to be revising for exams.”

No one moved for one long moment. Then James pushed back his chair, mumbled a goodbye, and stalked out the door. Lily hurried after him, sparing a backwards glance for the two teachers. They had always struck her as such formidable figures: tall, stately, Dumbledore with his long silvery hair and beard, McGonagall with her lined, stern face and painfully-tight bun. They had never seemed quite so opaque, so unreachable.

In the corridor outside, James hadn’t yet vanished from sight. He was raking a hand through his hair in agitation. When he saw Lily, he said, his voice low, “I can’t _believe_ them.”

An instinctive defence leapt to her lips, but she withheld it. “I know,” she said instead.

He seemed angry enough that he’d forgotten he was angry at _her_ too. “I can’t believe— I mean, we know they’ve done it!”

She fell into step beside him. “Well, unless you know they can do wandless magic, we can’t prove it.”

James scoffed. “They’re hardly that clever. Maybe it was the Imperius again, or something—”

Gently, she said, “Then there would be a trace of it.”

He said nothing in response. Only their footsteps broke the quiet. The longer they walked the longer Lily replayed their last conversation in her mind. It came like an uninvited guest into an otherwise simple, easy moment of shared frustration; it stood between them and made itself known. It whispered in her ear and reminded her that he had been so thoughtless as to ask her out in front of everyone after having humiliated her best friend...and that, as her friend, he had somehow expected her to know his feelings.

And then what? Should she have known them and reciprocated them? Lily never knew what James wanted.

He slowed where the corridor branched off. “I’m going this way,” he said, pointing towards Gryffindor Tower.

“All right,” Lily said slowly. “I’m not.”

James nodded as if this was the answer he’d been looking for. And then he was gone, and she was gone too.

* * *

_ii. Exit Thorpe_

“Oh, do we have to spend our break listening to the _news?”_ Mary moaned, dropping her quill.

The four girls were in the reading room in Gryffindor Tower, which was full of other students neck-deep in revisions. Since Thorpe, the library had been unusually deserted. Even the N.E.W.T.-mad seventh years had found empty classrooms to study in, rather than brave the stacks and an even crankier Madam Pince. Some of the more gossipy students had been heard saying Thorpe’s blood hadn’t yet been cleaned from the library’s floor.

That seemed unnecessarily ghoulish.

“Yes, we do,” Doe said, fiddling with the volume dial on the wireless so that the WWN evening news was a low hum. “The Wizengamot came back from recess today. So if they’ve done something dodgy, it’ll be on the news.”

“That’s how I do all my dodginess,” said Germaine dully, “to a schedule.”

Doe flapped a hand at her for silence, and Lily increased the volume a little at the familiar little chime that signalled the end of adverts.

_“Good evening, listeners, and welcome to the WWN News Hour, I’m your host, Andrew Stockton. Before I go on with this evening’s headlines, an announcement from our offices: the Marcel Thorpe Show will no longer be hosted by Marcel Thorpe and myself on Wednesday evenings.”_

“What?” Germaine said, sitting up. She was promptly shushed by Lily and Dorcas.

 _“—time off to be with family. Please join me in wishing him all the best,”_ Andrew Stockton went on. 

“Hardly surprising,” Mary whispered. “His daughter’s in hospital and everything.”

No one said anything to that, but one glance at her friends told Doe that all of them were thinking the same thing. As good as it was to see the back of Marcel Thorpe, the cost had been high. 

Their Defence Against the Dark Arts curriculum had essentially been completed already, and the last week of classes they’d had in Thorpe’s absence had been quiet study under the supervision of Flitwick or McGonagall. The exam, which they would take on Thursday, had been set by them in conjunction with the Aurors. 

Doe didn’t want to imagine how the seventh years must have panicked at the news. To take your Defence N.E.W.T. without a professor helping you revise, when that score would be a major factor in acceptance to Auror training… 

She immediately felt bad for thinking of her in terms of how useful she was. She was sad for the person, Aprylline Thorpe, just as much as the teacher, of course. But she did not want to feign some sort of connection with Thorpe that did not exist. All through last week she’d overheard whispers like _I did Remedial Defence with her,_ or _she always gave me brilliant feedback on my essays,_ people striving to bring themselves closer to a tragedy. 

_“—summer bonanza at Gladrags! Visit us in Diagon Alley for the hottest summer fashions—”_

Sighing, Doe turned down the volume. 

“Better luck next time,” said Germaine consolingly. 

“I can’t imagine my parents would have said — what they said for no reason,” Doe muttered.

Lily reached for her hand and patted it. “And I’m sure they didn’t. You can ask them in ten days if we don’t hear anything before then.” 

She smiled weakly. She’d had Mary write the Ministry to rescind her application, and had immediately written back to her mother asking for more details. But all Ruth Walker would say was, _we’ll talk about it when you’re back home._ Did that mean it was too sensitive to divulge over owl? Or was she being paranoid?

“I’m just...so on edge,” she admitted. “We’ve got exams, and Professor Thorpe’s still in St. Mungo’s, and… I feel as though something really bad’s about to happen.”

It was no exaggeration; foreboding was a dragon’s shadow, wings unfurled, and she was the fool thinking she could outrun it. Doe could only hope it had not affected her performance in the exams that had already gone by. Charms had been trickier than expected, but Flitwick was a lenient marker anyway… And Runes was last, so she had ample time to study for it… 

Before she could tumble headfirst into a panic daydream, the reading room door creaked open, and Peter Pettigrew came in balancing a stack of posters and a clipboard in his arms. Skirting round tables with mumbled apologies, Peter began Spellotaping one to the wall.

“Oi, Peter!” Mary called. “Give us one, would you?”

Several students whose heads had been bent over their books gave Mary nasty glares, but she seemed unfazed. For his part, Peter nodded acquiescence and came to their table, handing Mary a poster. 

“Ready for Herbology tomorrow?” he said to Doe and Lily, as Mary and Germaine peered at the poster.

“So long as no one accidentally siccs their Venomous Tentacula on me,” Doe said, shuddering. Some miscommunication between the Hufflepuffs had led to an unattended Tentacula in their last week of classes, and the thing had promptly cornered and terrorised the Ravenclaws while Sprout shouted instructions at them.

“It wouldn’t stand a chance against you,” Mary assured her, passing the poster down to her and Lily. 

It was a simple little animation: a hand flourishing a wand to produce silver sparks, the words MARAUDERS TAG at the top of the page. In Remus’s neat lettering at the bottom, Doe read _sixth years only; sign up with a Marauder before June 24th._

“Blimey, don’t you lot study?” Germaine said, brows raised.

Peter flushed. “It’s been in the works for a while.”

“I like the artwork,” said Mary, nodding her approval. “Go on, then, sign us up. I don’t want to argue with Sirius about whether or not there’s an entry fee or something.” She eyeballed Peter. “There isn’t, is there?”

“No,” he said quickly, “no, just put your name down… Moony’s going to get the rulebooks out in the next few days.”

Lily, Doe noticed, had not looked at the poster. At least, not the one on the table in front of her; she was staring at where Peter had affixed another to a wall.

“Are you going to take them down before we leave?” she said shortly.

“Er — do we have to?” Peter said. “The house elves will, won’t they?”

“Well, we don’t need to go out of our way to generate more waste for them.”

“It’s not exactly waste,” he said earnestly. “There isn’t an easy way to get people to sign up. I mean, we have to let them know first.”

“And I suppose every Tom, Dick, and Harry with the least interest in chasing us down and shooting spells at us can sign up?” Lily pressed.

The other three girls exchanged looks. Lily appeared perfectly calm on the outside, but Peter seemed to have realised he was being interrogated.

“Er, no, we’re vetting the players…”

“You’re vetting the players,” said Lily flatly. 

“Ye-es...”

“Brilliant. I’m sure that’ll go swimmingly.” And then she returned to her notes, scribbling with a renewed fury, though she had been the one to call for a break minutes before.

The girls gave a bewildered Peter tight smiles.

“Just sign us up, Peter,” Mary said.

Now red as a beet, Peter scrawled something on his clipboard. “And...L-Lily?”

Without looking up, Lily said, “I’ll think about it, thanks.”

“Cool. Great. See you at dinner, then—” 

When he was out of earshot, the girls exchanged glances again, then turned to look at Lily. After a moment she stopped writing and looked up with a sigh. 

“Don’t give me that look,” she grumbled.

“You can’t be rude to Peter,” said Doe, grimacing. “It’s like kicking a puppy.”

“Or a baby,” agreed Mary.

“Or...a unicorn foal,” said Germaine.

“Born gold, turns silver at age two, reaches adulthood at seven, retains golden hooves,” recited Doe without missing a beat.

“You _are_ good,” Germaine marvelled.

“Point is,” said Mary, “you didn’t have to take it out on him. You’re really angry at Potter and Black.”

Lily sighed once more. “Remus and Peter can’t have that excuse forever. I mean, they go along with the other two and their hare-brained schemes, they ought to deal with the consequences…”

“Hang on.” Germaine held up a finger, frowning. “You’re angry at Remus because he...told you to speak to James, which was good advice...and you’re angry at Peter because he...didn’t tell you to speak to James, even though you’re not really proper friends?”

She shook her head, sitting back in her chair with a thump. “That’s not— Well, when you put it that way it makes no sense at all!”

“Then you explain it to us,” Doe said, her voice low and soothing.

Lily gave her a baleful look. “Oh, stop.”

“If you’re angry with them for not somehow implying to you that James fancied you,” Mary said, “I’ve got harsh news. They’re _his_ friends, Lily. D’you think I’d have told James about that time in second year? I wouldn’t. Not even if he’d begged.”

“In their defence, they’ve never denied he fancies you,” Germaine said. “I’m sure if you combed through your memory they’ll have implied it a lot. You didn’t believe Mary and Doe either, Lil, and it was only because you didn’t want to.”

Blushing furiously, Lily crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

“There isn’t,” said Doe, shrugging. “But it would be wrong to blame them for it. Look, Sirius has been the world’s greatest prick to you. So fuck him, yeah? And James shouldn’t have got so defensive with you because _you_ didn’t realise he fancies you.”

“Fancied,” Lily said quickly, “past tense. He made that very clear.”

“Whatever it is. But you spent the whole year saying you wanted to get along with James so we could have some peace and quiet in the common room for a change. Well, there’s no better way to break all that down than to antagonise Remus and Peter as well.”

Lily’s shoulders slumped; she propped her face in one hand, making a face. “Right. You’re...right. It’s just tiring, sometimes, having to be good, and taking the higher road, and being the better person.”

“Well, you _are_ good,” Doe said lightly. “So, you have only yourself to blame.”

Lily cracked a smile at that.

Mary elbowed her gently. “Or you could say fuck it and join me in the burned-bridges club. Yes? Thoughts?”

“Am I allowed in?” Germaine said.

“Well, you’ve burned other people’s bridges,” said Doe. “I don’t know if that counts.”

She rolled her eyes. “Look, it’s not _my_ fault. Or if it is, it’s definitely Mary’s fault too, at least a little.”

Mary gave a careless shrug. “I’ve got plenty of fault to spare.”

“Are Amelia and Emmeline still rowing, then?” Lily said. She seemed to have shaken off the mood Peter’s appearance had brought on; Doe relaxed.

“I wouldn’t say ‘rowing,’” said Mary. “It’s rather Cold War.”

“What the hell’s that?” Germaine said.

“There’s a magical equivalent,” quipped Doe. “The Greek Centaur-Wizard Conflict of 1339.”

Germaine gave her a look of mixed disgust and awe. “Why do you remember that, and why do you expect me to remember that?”

Doe burst into laughter. “You’re the one taking History of Magic, not me!”

“Exactly!”

“Christ, they’re not speaking, is what I was getting at.” Mary rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. 

Doe reached across the table to swat her, missed, and hit Lily instead. “They’ll make up bef— _oof,_ sorry, Lily — no, don’t—” She shrieked, dodging Lily’s attempt to swat her back. The students around them muttered and scowled. A brief tussle ensued, ending in Doe catching Lily by the wrists, breathless and laughing.

“As I was _saying,_ they’ll be fine before we’re back on the train. They’re best mates.”

“You’re such an optimist,” Germaine said, shaking her head.

“Well, do you not think so?”

She shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “If I found out one of you called Emmeline a...well, something _bad,_ I’d constantly wonder if you thought the same of me, wouldn’t I?”

Doe had no good response to that. “Merlin, yes. That was silly of me, not thinking of it that way.”

Across the table from her, Mary looked just as cowed. “I reckon I’ve said something offhand and stupid before. But I—” She cut herself short, fidgeting. “I won’t, anymore.”

Germaine nodded stiffly. “You don’t have to, like...apologise to me personally. I don’t...speak for everyone or anything.”

“Oh, I know, but…” Mary picked at a flake of varnish on the table. “If anything I’ve said made you feel poorly, or uncomfortable, or — well, I don’t ever want to make you feel that way.”

Some of Germaine’s tension ebbed away; she smiled a little. “I know you don’t, Mare.” 

Just then, Peter passed through the aisle by them, his poster stack slightly depleted. Doe realised there were only nine sixth years in Gryffindor, four of whom were the Marauders themselves. Postering the tower _was_ incredibly silly. She stifled a fond smile. 

Meanwhile a small commotion ensued under the table; by Lily’s poorly-suppressed shout, Doe guessed that Mary had kicked her.

“Hey, Peter,” Lily said, still sounding strangled.

He paused, turning around. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry about earlier. I was snippy with you, and I shouldn’t have been. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Peter looked immensely relieved. “Oh, right. Yeah. Er, no worries.” He smiled and hurried off, as if afraid Lily would rescind her apology.

“You cottoned on this time,” said Mary appreciatively. “They grow up so fast.”

Lily glared at her. “I’m six months older than you, prat.”

“Don't bicker, children,” Germaine, the eldest, said grandly. She reached for the wireless and moved it to the centre of the table, scanning to a different channel. A folksy ballad began to play. “Ah, Seven Sickles. I’ve done well.”

“Knockoff Fleetwood Mac,” Mary said.

“Don’t you start,” said Doe, rolling her eyes. “This song, then we’re back to studying.” 

She increased the volume ever so slightly, mindful of the cramming students around them. All four girls leaned closer. The husky-voiced singer was crooning something about pixie dust as a tambourine jangled in the background.

 _“Rhiannon rings like a bell in the night,”_ Mary sang under her breath.

“She’s starting,” Germaine said to Doe.

“I can hear that.”

_“—takes to the sky like a bird in flight—”_

“Just switch it off,” Lily whispered, “quickly, before she really gets going.”

_“—all your LIFE, you’ve never seen, a WOMAN—”_

“Would you lot get out?” said a boy at the next table. “Some of us have got N.E.W.T.s, you know!”

Muffling laughter, they grabbed their notes and ran.

* * *

_  
iii. Dick Dickborn and the Classifieds_

The last full week of the school year had at last come upon them. While teachers marked exams and fifth and seventh years finished up O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, the rest of Hogwarts enjoyed the warm near-summer weather. The Marauders were no exception. 

The row over Lily had passed without apology, having been dramatically overshadowed by the attack on Thorpe. And, well, it was of little consequence, considering that James and Lily had then rowed. Two rows cancelled out, James reckoned. 

He had no desire to complain about this row, as was his habit. Mostly he was aggravated, too insulted to be able to describe how insulted he was. But he had a grim feeling that if he began trying to explain, some more levelheaded soul would calm him down. And James was happy with his aggravation, thank you very much.

He had convinced Remus and Peter to join him and Sirius in a Quidditch scrimmage, and was confident that he could recruit someone-or-other to flesh the group out. Germaine would certainly join, and maybe it was time to scope out some younger Gryffindors — after all, there would be three empty spots on his Quidditch team next year…

James considered this and was content, gulping down his second goblet of pumpkin juice with all the restraint of any seventeen-year-old boy. He was mid-gulp when Marissa sat down at the Gryffindor table next to him, bright and buzzing with excitement.

“Guess who I’ve just heard back from,” she said, thrusting a letter at him.

With effort he swallowed his juice and did not choke (“Nice,” Sirius muttered beside him). James pushed up his glasses and squinted at the letter. _Dear Miss Beasley, We are thrilled to offer you a place on the local desk at the_ Daily Prophet. He set it down, grinning.

“I knew they’d say yes,” he said. He had never seen her quite so giddy; she could hardly sit still. 

Marissa gave a little squeal. “I didn’t. _God,_ what a relief — I’ve still got History of Magic, but I could fail for all I care—”

“Highly doubt that.”

“—and it’s not even a rubbish desk, like...Oddities, or sports, or the bloody crossword!”

“Sports?” James repeated, indignant.

“The crossword’s the most intellectual part of the _Prophet,”_ Sirius cut in.

“Well, it’s not that sports would be bad. _I_ would be bad at it,” said Marissa.

“Highly doubt that too,” said James.

“You’re too _nice,”_ she replied, and then she kissed him.

Of course it was a well-known fact round Hogwarts that the Gryffindor Quidditch captain was seeing the Head Girl, but Marissa and James had never been big on public snogging. So he was surprised by this turn of events — but not at all displeased. He responded with enthusiasm. Behind his back, his friends exchanged glances.

“Well. Thanks to the local desk,” James said, laughing, when they had parted. “Maybe they can write you something nice every morning.”

Marissa huffed, but her smile had not shrunk in the slightest. “Are you doing anything this morning?”

“Quidditch after breakfast — oi, you should play too!” James brightened. Marissa followed Quidditch — though she was, regrettably, a Falmouth Falcons fan — but he had never seen her play before.

“No, he’s not busy,” Sirius interjected. “Free as a bird.”

James gave him a quizzical look. _You’re welcome,_ Sirius mouthed, rolling his eyes.

“James?” Marissa prompted, one eyebrow quirked.

Realisation hit like a Bludger. “Oh, yeah, no, that’s— Quidditch can be moved. Quidditch _has_ been moved.” He set down his goblet with a decisive _clink._

She laughed and he joined her, albeit sheepishly, as they made their way out of the Great Hall. Funny how a spot of good news — not even for himself, personally — could improve the day so dramatically. James set aside his aggravation, and the nagging sense of failure that had dogged him since Dumbledore had declared Rosier and his ilk innocent. He would figure it out. He always did.

“What about Dick Dickborn?” he said presently, as they approached Ravenclaw Tower.

She made a face, but she had not once seriously told him to drop the nickname, which made James think she wished _she_ could call him that too.

“What about him?”

“Did he get the classifieds?”

“I don’t think new hires are forced to do that. It’s probably the same workhorse who’s been handling them since 1932…”

He gestured for her to hurry up.

Marissa sighed. “I don’t know. He wasn’t at breakfast.” Her enthusiasm dimmed for the first time all morning. “I’d feel awful if he didn’t get a _Prophet_ job. He really wants it.”

James shrugged. “Loads of people don’t get what they want. The Stones can help drill that in, d’you think he knows who they are?”

“But it’s not just that.” She gave him a look of reproach, then glanced around as if afraid Doc Dearborn would spring from behind a suit of armour. “There’s a lot of pressure on him. He’s got two elder sisters, see, and they’re both brilliant — but neither of them have had a job that’s properly stuck. I think Gwenllian was at _Witch Weekly_ at some point. Mari had a Ministry job. And then they both—” Marissa snapped her fingers. “Fizzled out, you know? His dad’s all but given up on them. So Doc _has_ to succeed.”

He was not much moved by the tragedy of Doc Dearborn. His family were, after all, old wizarding blood — not the Blacks by any means, but the Dearborn name carried the same respect as Potter. James could not imagine Doc’s life was particularly hard, since his was not. 

Although, given that his parents had named two of their children Gwenllian and Caradoc, maybe it was worse than it seemed. At least _his_ parents had avoided saddling him with Fleamont.

But Marissa sounded honestly worried, so James kept his scepticism to himself.

“There’s magazines,” he said aloud, “not just the _Prophet._ A smart bloke like Dick can figure it out.”

The door-knocker to Ravenclaw Tower saved her from responding. It took Marissa a minute or so to adequately answer the riddle, and by the time they stepped into the common room all talk of Doc Dearborn had ceased.

“I’ll tell you what riddle I’d like to see that eagle twit ask,” James said. “‘I have eyes, but I can’t see—’”

“Shoo,” said Marissa immediately.

“That’s rude.”

“I mean, it’s a shoe. The answer to your riddle.”

“But I haven’t even finished telling it!”

Grinning, she said, “‘I have eyes, but I can’t see. I have a tongue, but I can’t speak. I have a soul, but I’m not alive.’ Soul, _sole._ It’s a shoe.”

James groaned. “Bloody Ravenclaws.”

“Mum’s always loved riddles. I was practically raised on them.”

“Bloody tricky Ravenclaws,” he amended.

She shrugged modestly. “You’ve never minded my tricks before.”

“I take it back.”

“Thought you would.”

They made for the stairs, James’s mind turning happily to said tricks. At the base of the staircase, Marissa paused to pick something up. She made a sound of annoyance, holding the thing aloft; James saw that it was a wand, and a stubby, splintering one at that.

“Seriously, don’t drop your wands on the ground,” Marissa said, pitching her voice so that the students milling about the common room would hear her. She set the wand on her palm and said, _“Locus prior.”_ It spun like a compass needle, pointing to a corner of the room where a student sat curled up, facing the wall.

“Thought so,” Marissa muttered, striding towards them.

“How did you do that?” James said. He had never even attempted to cast a spell with anyone else’s wand; his own mahogany was one of his most treasured belongings.

“Oh… Someone from the Experimental Charms Committee was at Slughorn’s last Christmas party. I’m no star with charms, but I thought it was clever. Points you back to where a wand last cast a spell, which is useful only in certain circumstances—”

He shook his head. “No, I mean — the wand listened to you.”

Marissa shrugged. “Just my luck I found one that agreed with me, I suppose.” To the student in the corner, she called, “Oi, Devon, you dropped this. _Again.”_

James missed the rest of their exchange, struck silent by realisation. Of course, he thought, but it all made _sense_ this way. That was why they had all submitted to the Priori Incantatem test — because they hadn’t used their own wands on Thorpe. And before the professor had been attacked, the library had been full every day… How hard could it be to nick a wand from someone while they studied?

“What is it?” said Marissa, breaking his trance.

“Huh?”

“You said _of course_ aloud and started staring into the middle distance. So, what’s happened?”

Glancing at the rest of the common room to make sure no one else was listening, James said, “I think whoever attacked Thorpe didn’t use their own wands.”

Her brows rose. “And that’s why _whoever_ didn’t get caught by Dumbledore.”

He shrugged, not wanting to clarify if she knew about the test or not. Grim reality had descended upon his good mood once more. James recalled how the headmaster’s hands had been tied; what was the point in running a school if the _board_ stopped you from weeding out the Dark-arts-obsessed creeps? 

“But there’s no way to prove it,” Marissa said.

“Well, yeah… That’s obviously why they did it.”

“But what would you tell McGonagall?” she persisted. When James did not answer immediately, Marissa said, “That _was_ what you were planning on doing, wasn’t it?”

He hadn’t got that far in his thinking. But now he could see Marissa’s point. Even if he did tell McGonagall or Dumbledore what he suspected, he could not prove it, and neither could they. They could perform _Priori Incantatem_ on every student’s wand, but all that would show was which wand cast the spells, not that Rosier and his mates had done the whole thing. 

Worst of all, what if James _did_ tell a teacher, and the end result was some hapless student being expelled for something they didn’t do? He hated to admit it, but the difficulty of Dumbledore’s position was growing clearer by the minute. James did not like being wrong. 

“I don’t know,” he said at last.

“Enough’s enough, I reckon,” she mumbled.

They stood there for a long moment, looking at one another. In the same moment, James and Marissa both realised the giddy delight that had brought them to Ravenclaw Tower had faded, and awkward silence remained. 

She jerked a thumb at the staircase. “I’ve got loads of leftover sweets I don’t want to pack up and take home with me.”

James relaxed. “You only want me for my stomach.”

She laughed.

Mary wanted to be alone, but not alone. This instinct had taken her to the Lake, which, as was normal for this time of year, was ringed by students celebrating the end of exams. She chose a place by some younger Hufflepuffs — harmless, she thought — and ignored their whispering. She set her wand down within reach, stripped off her socks and shoes, and let her legs dangle in the water. 

She swung her feet back and forth and the vague tune in her mind coalesced into a song; she began to softly sing along. _I wanna live with a cinnamon girl; I could be happy the rest of my life with a cinnamon girl…_ Presently a movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. 

At once her mood soured. It was Doc Dearborn; of course it was. Exactly what she didn’t need. 

But, damn it, she’d scoped out this spot and selected it! She shouldn’t have to give it up. So Mary resolutely stayed put, and peered at him from under her lashes. 

He noticed her soon after. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at her. Mary decided to stop pretending she wasn’t looking at him in return. 

He took a half-step towards her. “Look, I wanted to—”

 _Christ, here we are._ “Apologise?” she guessed. “Chris Townes was struck by the impulse before you, so don’t pat yourself on the back.”

Doc said nothing, just turned over the piece of parchment he was holding. Against her best impulses, Mary’s curiosity rose. Plenty of seventh years had been receiving news, both good and bad, about employment after Hogwarts. There had been shrieks and hugs at the breakfast table, and one or two teary outbursts as well. 

“What’s that you’ve got?” She jerked her chin at the letter. 

He started as if he had forgotten he still held it. He folded it up and stowed it away. “It’s from the _Prophet,_ about a job.” He didn’t sound particularly enthused. 

“You didn’t get it?” said Mary, with only the slightest trace of awkwardness. 

Doc hesitated. “No, I did.”

Her brows rose. “Don’t sound so thrilled.”

“It’s all happening at once,” he murmured; he did look quite dazed, now that she thought of it. Hopefully he would not keel over into the Lake. Mary had a vivid, horrifying vision of herself having to fish him out and perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. For one, she hadn’t the first idea how that was done, and for another, the rumour mill would probably twist it into something ridiculous. 

Actually, that sounded funny enough that it might be worth it. 

“I got the culture desk,” Doc said, suddenly sounding present again. “Art, food…”

“Moonshine?” Mary said drily. 

One corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Let’s hope not.”

She caught herself halfway to a smile. “Anyway, it’s not really me you should be apologising to,” Mary said, as if they’d never digressed through his job. “It’s Marissa. You treated her so poorly, and she’s your best fucking friend.”

Doc blinked. “What?”

“She dated you, got dumped by you, pined after you, worried you’d cheated on her…” She counted the offences on her fingers. “I bet you’ve not talked about any of that.”

“What?! I didn’t dump her — and she didn’t pine after me!”

Mary hoped the Hufflepuffs behind them were enjoying the show. Someone should, at least. 

“The details might be wrong but the gist is real enough.”

“She’s not pining,” Doc said. “She’s dating Potter.”

“Oh, I’m aware. I didn’t say she _is,_ I said she was. None of this was meant to incentivise you to run off and beg her to take you back.”

He opened his mouth to protest, a flush creeping into his face. 

“Why do blokes always think that?” Mary said, cutting him off. “If you ask me, the apology should be a separate event from the romantic proposition. Preferably several separate events.”

“I don’t know if we’re still talking about Marissa and me,” said Doc. 

She cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t know. Aren’t we?” 

Mary looked at her feet, made into wavering shapes thanks to the lakewater’s rippled surface. What would it be like to just push off the edge and submerge into the wonderful coolness of it, and swim away? 

But she couldn’t swim to a different life. She could only swim to the far shore, if she even got so far. 

Abruptly she stood, not bothering to dry off her calves. Shoes and socks in hand, she took in Doc Dearborn in one glance. 

“Bye,” said Mary. 

He seemed surprised that the conversation had come to an end. “See you,” he said, which struck her as very optimistic. 

She headed for the castle’s back gate, the instinct to be on her own overriding the prey instinct to stay in the open. Mary strode through the grass, ignoring the now-giggling Hufflepuffs she’d been so comforted by earlier. As she went, she breezed a familiar dark-haired figure. To her displeasure, the figure followed. _Enough,_ she thought, _enough, enough, enough for today!_

But the universe, apparently, disagreed with her.

“Happy now, are you?” said Amelia Bones.

Mary sighed. “You tell me why I’m happy, Amelia.”

“Emmeline won’t speak to me. You’ve had your revenge.” 

She sounded more upset than Mary had ever heard before, which gave her a reluctant twinge of guilt. 

“It wasn’t revenge,” Mary said wearily. “And _I_ didn’t tell Emmeline anything. Germaine did, as was within her right considering what you said about her.”

“But you told her.”

“Yes, well, it wasn’t some big devious plan!”

Amelia humphed. “Now all you’re missing is Dearborn. Too bad that didn’t work out.”

“Oh, you’re joking,” grumbled Mary. “You’ve got better things to do than bother me, Bones. Grovelling, for one.”

Underfoot the grass gave way to stone; the back gate swung shut behind Mary, separating her from Amelia. The other witch did not try to pursue her again.

“At least I’m not overflowing with insecurity,” said Amelia.

Mary laughed. The sound echoed through the courtyard. “We both know _that’s_ not true.”

* * *

_Interlude: Assembly, Demonstration, Association_

Packing was faster with magic, but better the Muggle way. Lily was a firm believer in that principle. With a pack of Bertie Bott’s for sustenance, she finished sorting through and folding her clothes, leaving behind only the few sets she needed to last her till the end of term. Then she opened her trunk, wincing at the detritus that had gathered there over the ten weeks since Easter. 

The only things she really kept in her trunk over term were letters she received, so really, in an ideal world it would contain just a neat stack of papers. But eventually Lily always lost her patience and it became a catch-all for things she would deal with later — the stockings that had ripped too close to the first bell for her to risk a darning spell, a lone earring whose pair she had lost, the tube of lipstick she had used down to a nub and needed to save lest she forget the shade. She popped a bean in her mouth without looking — strawberry, thank God — and reached for the stockings, tracing her wand over them slowly. 

Behind her, Doe and Sara were packing too — ostensibly. Sara took the opposite view from Lily, and directed all her things into her trunk with a simple wand-wave. Whether or not this method was neat, Lily had no clue, but Sara seemed content to replicate it every year, so it was certainly efficient. Because it took her no time at all, Sara did not pack until the last day. She was supposed to be helping Doe fit all her books in, but neither was making much of an effort. Doe was assembling towers of her textbooks, and Sara fiddled with a wireless, flipping between songs until Lily thought she was going to scream from the staticky snippets.

_“—morning digest on the Wizarding Wireless Network news hour—”_

_“—pixie dust, you’re a spell cast over me, pixie dust—”_

_“—summer-ready with Madam Primpernelle’s Sun Skin-Saver—”_

_“—bill introduced in this morning’s Wizengamot session—”_

“Stop!” Doe hissed, scrambling for the wireless. “Stop, change it back to the news—”

_“—oh, you’re a spell cast over me—”_

“Sorry!” Sara twisted the dial, and the dulcet tones of the WWN newsreader filled the room once more.

_“—calling it the Assembly, Demonstration, and Association Act, ADA for short, an unprecedented joining of hands between the Wizengamot and the Auror Office, which is now authorised to question anyone participating in disruptive demonstrations, or belonging to certain groups.”_

“Well, it’s about time,” Sara said.

Doe frowned. “Why would you say that?”

Sara shrugged. “It’s obviously because of that...creepy blood supremacist march over Easter. I’d have thought you’d be happy about this too.”

Doe shook her head, insistent. “But all it means is that Aurors can question people. They get to decide what’s a disruptive demonstration, and what groups they’re allowed to investigate — who’s to say they won’t be arresting pro-Muggleborn demonstrators next? Without warrant, even, if that’s what this bill means. They’ve just got to have you on a watchlist.” 

Lily watched as Sara went from assured to uncertain. “But… _you_ want to be an Auror,” Sara said. “Do you think they’d do that?”

Doe remained silent for a long minute. When the moment stretched longer and longer, Lily said, “It’s a lot of faith to put in one department, I suppose.”

“We already _do_ put a lot of faith in the Aurors,” Sara pointed out. “If they decided to side with You-Know-Who, well— Not that that would happen!” she added hurriedly. “Crouch hates the Dark Arts as much as Dumbledore does.”

“Yeah,” said Doe slowly, sounding unconvinced. Then, in an obvious attempt to change the subject, she turned to Lily. “How’s your packing going?”

Lily had sorted through all the broken bits and bobs and decided which to keep and which to throw. What remained was the letters, which she usually picked through to save the special ones — birthday wishes, mostly. It occurred to her that she had a whole year of letters from her mother that she could examine from every angle, searching for hints of her illness. She didn’t want to keep the evidence of her mother’s omission. But it seemed wrong to get rid of the last letters Doris had written her.

The _last._ How final, like box being nailed shut. Lily would have been lying if she said no part of her still thought she would be going home to Cokeworth in a few days, her mother and her sister both there to meet her at King’s Cross.

She saw the stack’s first letter, bracing herself for her mother’s writing, but it was not from Doris. _He does consider it an adventure, and I’m inclined to agree. If you do haunt Carkitt Market all summer, you can charm all the neighbours…_ Lily smiled faintly, and kept going. 

_We visited a flat yesterday that had a banshee next door. Sirius is afraid he’ll die the very first night… Mum’s going into mourning because her favourite son is moving out. Not me, in case that wasn’t clear… I think most feelings — anger, confusion, fear, sadness, etc. — are fair, given the circumstances. The question is, are you taking it out on anyone you shouldn’t be?_

“Oh, bugger,” Lily whispered, quickly reshuffling the letters. 

It wasn’t that they upset her. All her worst thoughts and feelings from that week had been in _her_ letters, sent away to him as if just putting them down on paper would be an exorcism of sorts. But _writing_ the letters had not been what comforted her. What comforted her was hearing back. Knowing that someone was reading them, and listening, and writing her in exchange.

She and James had not fallen off the proverbial cliff. They were not even close to the edge. 

In another time this realisation might have compelled her to go find him at once and rope him into conversation. But Lily did not want confrontation. She did not want another round of pushing and pulling. She wanted the easy understanding she had had with him over Easter — except the price it had come with was far too high. 

She stood, mumbling something about stretching her legs, and went down to the common room. She knew she should hurry up her own packing so that she could offer Pack with a Prefect again this evening, but that was not motivation enough to go upstairs and carry on. Instead she went up to one of the Marauders Tag posters. 

They peppered the walls of the Gryffindor common room, which struck Lily as especially silly — there were only nine Gryffindor sixth years, after all, four of whom were the boys themselves. If the purpose was to make the other years extraordinarily envious, the Marauders had succeeded. Since the posters had gone up she’d overheard several fifth years discussing the game at meals. She’d had to resist telling them they’d be at a disadvantage, since none of them could Apparate. She doubted it would sway them.

She herself had still not signed up, though she knew the other four girls had. She couldn’t have said why, really. Leftover annoyance with James? Leftover conviction that James had the same annoyance with her? He had gone so far as to leave rooms when she entered. 

She caught sight of a familiar face in the corner of her eye. Think of the devil — was that a saying? 

“You owe me an apology,” Lily said.

Sirius stood a few feet away from her, hands in his pockets. He was looking at the poster, not her.

“I may have been wrong,” he acknowledged.

She scowled. “You treated me like crap. An admission would be nice.”

“You ought to sign up for tag,” he said instead.

Lily rolled her eyes. “That’s not an apology.”

“Don’t push your luck, Evans.”

Her mouth fell open. “You’re insufferable. I hope you know that.”

Sirius shrugged. “If you’re not signing up because of me — or because of Prongs — you needn’t worry.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “So earlier I couldn’t be trusted to speak with him, but now I’m absolved because he’s angry with me?”

“Is he angry with you? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Sirius,” Lily snapped.

“Seriously.”

“Well, I’m inclined to say I won’t play just because you want me to.” It was a childish thing to say, but in her defence, he was hardly being more mature than she.

“Really? You’re going to let me get to you that much?” Sirius snorted. “I thought you were harder to knock off than that, Evans.”

Lily ground her teeth. “Sign me up then. Bloody hell. _Move,_ I’ve got packing to do.” She swept past him before he could find another infuriating remark to throw her way.

* * *

_iv. End of Days_

Trunks were all but packed. The house elves were preparing for the End of Term Feast. And exam results were out, which was why Sirius Black found himself in the Defence Against the Dark Arts corridor that Friday.

It wasn’t that he’d _never_ received an Outstanding before. He had had the odd O before, on papers and tests in class. But never on an exam, at the end of the year. He consistently Exceeded Expectations, perhaps because many professors tended to have _low_ expectations of his interest in test-taking. This time he had an O.

Granted, it wasn’t Thorpe’s Outstanding to give, probably. Rumour had it that McGonagall and Flitwick had marked the papers together, as they had set them. Sirius didn’t know if the professor had been released from St. Mungo’s yet. He expected her office would be just as she had left it.

It was not. The door was half-open, and through it Sirius could see Edgar Bones levitating her books and instruments into various boxes. He took a step back, thinking the Auror was the only one in the room, but then caught sight of a figure in a chair.

Thorpe spotted him too, and waved him in. Sirius tried not to stare as he stepped inside the office — not at Bones, who seemed grimly focused on his packing, nor at the echoey bareness of the room. No, it was difficult not to stare at Thorpe herself, who was dressed in robes but markedly paler than usual. Thick, knotted scars lined her hands, and one wound its way up the side of her neck, ending in the middle of her left cheek. Curse wounds, he knew, did not heal. 

Any leftover curiosity he’d had about the details of her attack vanished at the sight of her. If this was the result of two weeks at the hands of Britain’s best Healers, Sirius did not want to consider the immediate aftermath. Indeed, he was so concentrated on _not_ picturing it that he was sure his face was screwed up into a grimace.

“I didn’t think they’d let you out of the ward yet, Professor,” he said.

“No physical exertion for a while, I’m afraid,” Thorpe said crisply. “But I will recover.”

His brows rose. This, he had not expected. “Then...why are you packing your things?”

Edgar Bones gave a pointed cough.

“I resigned,” said Thorpe.

“You’re joking,” Sirius said loudly.

She narrowed her eyes at him in reproach, but he was hardly daunted.

“You’re just leaving? Don’t you want to know who — who did — well—” Sirius spluttered. “You’re the first teacher in years who’s let us actually duel, who’s taught us combat magic—”

“And I’m probably the first teacher in years who could not protect myself,” said Thorpe, “against a prank.”

Sirius rocked back on his heels. “A _prank?_ Only because no evil gits tried to slash up Professor bloody Bellweather—”

“Watch it,” Bones said, glancing over his shoulder to glare at Sirius.

“Some students have certainly lost respect for a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor incapable of doing her job,” Thorpe said smoothly.

“Then they’re stupid!” Sirius protested.

“But they’re students.”

“Oh, this isn’t about the Board, is it?”

“No, it’s about—”

But he’d pieced it together, the subtext to her words. “It’s about your pride,” Sirius said. And it didn’t matter how heated he sounded, that he was talking back to a teacher, because she was leaving anyway, wasn’t she? “Because you hate the thought that a couple of students got the better of you.”

Bones set down a box with a thump. “Right, enough. Out.”

“No, it’s all right,” Thorpe said. “He’s quite correct. It’s my pride. If I couldn’t stop what happened to me, I certainly can’t find out who’s targeting Muggle-born students. And then this position ought to go to someone who can.”

“If the perfect Defence Against the Dark Arts professor existed, they’d already _be here!”_

“I’m flattered that you feel so strongly, Black, but my decision is final.”

Sirius could not have explained why he was so angry. It was a helpless sort of fury, one that a part of him acknowledged was probably unfair. But in that moment he didn’t care about what was fair. The _rest_ of this situation was unfair — that she should have to leave, that whoever did this would get away with it, that they would be stuck with some tosser next year.

“No student would _look_ at you and think you’re incapable,” he said finally.

Bones sucked in a breath; Thorpe shuddered, and for a moment Sirius wondered if she was going to cry. The moment passed. She regained her composure, like a lake’s surface smoothing over ripples. Neither she nor Edgar Bones had to tell him to leave again.

James strode into the sixth year boys’ dorm on Friday night, the last evening of the term, with a scroll of parchment in one hand.

“Final tag list,” he announced. “You’ll be happy to know, by the way, that some fourth years have gone and started last day tag because they can’t play _our_ tag. Person to end up with tag when we’re off the train is the biggest loser of 1977. Or so I hear.”

Then he took in the scene around him: Sirius smoking by the window, Peter playing with what looked like a small ball, and Remus at the LP player — always the last item to go. 

_“—sun is the same in a relative way, but you’re older,”_ sang David Gilmour.

“Jesus Christ,” James said, “we’re getting maudlin, are we?”

“Oh, good, you’re back,” Sirius said. “Put the list away.”

James stowed it carefully in his trunk, eyeing Remus — who seemed more withdrawn than usual — as he did. He understood his friend’s melancholy, of course. No matter how much James told him he could live at the Potters’ forever, Remus did not enjoy discussing the future. Unlike the rest of them, he could not be certain what sort of life awaited him in the wizarding world. 

“Put on something more cheerful,” said James. “Or we’ll be weeping by the time ‘Eclipse’ comes around.”

Remus chuckled at that — James felt pleased — and took _The Dark Side of the Moon_ off the player. 

“What’s next?” asked Sirius, his own brooding expression turning into a smirk. “‘I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times?’”

“‘Help!’” Peter suggested.

“‘Comfortably Numb,’” said James.

“At this rate, it’ll be ‘Psycho Killer,’” said Remus drily.

“There’s the Moony we know and love,” said James. He dropped onto his bed, rummaging underneath to produce two dusty unopened bottles of Firewhisky. “Fuck hanging on in quiet desperation and the English way and all that. We’re getting shitfaced.”

Sirius laughed. “What the fuck are those? Where did they come from? Did you _put_ them there?”

“Evan said to check underneath the beds for his stash. The house elves might not have cleared it out. And here you are. There’s loads more, by the way.” 

With a flourish he handed one to Remus, and worked the other one open.

“To a year well concluded,” James said. Though he might not have felt that way when he’d walked in the room, he was determined enough to convince Remus of it that he almost believed it.

He took a sip and passed the bottle to Peter, who handed him the ball in exchange. James saw that it was, in fact, a Snitch — dented, and wings fluttering only weakly.

“Is this the Snitch from _last_ year?” 

Peter looked faintly embarrassed. “Must’ve got mixed up in my things. I found it while packing.”

Sirius snorted. “You shouldn’t have given it back to him, Wormtail. I was sick to death of his posturing.”

“Fuck off,” James told him, without any heat. Taking aim at Sirius, he threw the Snitch a hair’s breadth over his head and out the window.

“Missed,” said Sirius gleefully.

“I can see that, you great prat. I meant to throw it out.” 

Ignoring Sirius’s scoff, James dug out two more bottles. Time, after all, moved at his pace. It flew by when he said it could.

Several hours later, James was the unfortunate loser of a nose-goes round, and stumbled into the common room. He pushed his hair out of his face, sending it to greater heights of messiness, and made his way to the chairs surrounding the fireplace, where Peter had supposedly left his Gobstones set.

“Wormtail, you fucker,” he mumbled to himself. _“Accio_ Wormtail’s stones. No. Shit. _Accio—”_

He froze. There was someone in a chair, a blanket lying at their feet. No, not just someone. James at last overcame the effects of alcohol and recognised Lily, _pack with a prefect_ sign and all, curled up in an armchair. 

He could wake her up, he supposed. That was the sensible thing to do, since she would be far more comfortable in her own bed. But did he want to wake her, in his incredibly drunken state, and possibly row with her?

No, definitely not. James turned around and continued to hunt for the Gobstones set.

At last he found it halfway hidden behind a sofa — “Wormtail, you fucker,” James mumbled again for good measure — and made for the staircase. But he caught sight of Lily once more, her blanket puddled at the foot of her chair…

Before he could think too much of it, James crossed the common room once more and snatched up the blanket. It was difficult to shake it out with a Gobstones set wedged under one arm, but he managed it with some muttered curses. Then he laid it over her, stepping back to admire his handiwork.

She woke with a start. “What—”

James thought, _shit! Fuck!_ Miraculously, he said neither of those things. “Shh, go back t’sleep,” was what he came up with instead.

Her alarm appeared to fade. He turned tail and legged it up the stairs before he could cause another disaster.

* * *

_v. And One More for Good Measure_

“I can’t believe they’ve decided to let us have an Auror-free train journey, _now_ of all times,” Mary complained.

The girls had settled into a compartment on the train, which was pulling away from Hogsmeade station at last. Lily had her nose practically pressed to the window; she did not turn around to reply.

“You’d think they would care more, after what happened to Thorpe,” she agreed.

“Well, yes, that,” said Mary. “But I mean — I can walk around freely, only no one wants to speak with me!”

“Wow, Mare. You’re stuck with us,” Germaine said, deadpan.

“Exactly!”

Germaine threw the first handy object at her, which happened to be the mystery novel Doe was reading.

“Oi, not my book!”

“Yes, tell her, Doe—”

 _“You_ deserved it—”

“Think of it this way,” said Germaine. “If you’re here, you can’t be stuck with last day tag.”

Mary made a face. “Some second year tried to _prod_ me, if you can believe it. The merchandise—” she gestured to her own body “—is not for prepubescents.”

Lily smiled and caught her reflection smiling in the glass. It was not a wholly happy smile; she was not leaving Hogwarts with the same satisfaction that she had as a child. But then, she had been in a far worse mood at the end of the previous year. Perhaps it was another part of growing up — of knowing things were no longer black and white, but shades of grey.

By rights she ought to sleep. She had dozed off in a chair in the common room the previous night, and had some very odd dreams. There was a vague soreness in her neck that would no doubt be exacerbated by Petunia’s uncomfortable sofa. But the knowledge that only her sister would be coming to meet her at the station kept her on edge. 

They would have to hunt for a bigger flat, the better to accommodate the both of them. And how would Petunia take to living with Lily, which they hadn’t really done in years? Nervousness bubbled up in her throat at the thought — but so too did hope. 

Tuney was all she had. And there was no better chance to bridge the gap between them than this summer. 

As the highlands changed to flatter fields and then to the villages that marked the outskirts of London, Lily’s anxiety built up to a tipping point. She could _not_ face Petunia like this.

“I’ve got to stretch my legs. Anyone want anything from the trolley, if I run into her?”

There was a chorus of nos, and Lily left the compartment, heaving a sigh of relief at the empty corridors snaking along on either side of her. She hugged her stomach and forced a leisurely pace, deepening her breathing as she went.

It would be fine. It would all be fine. 

As she passed she could hear snatches of conversation through frosted-glass compartment doors: laughter, whispers, the last-minute gossip that would no doubt spread up and down the platform and become the starring feature of the first summer letters. It was the last time she could witness it — participate in it — and know that another year still remained.

Nostalgia had just about managed to overwhelm Lily’s panic when a compartment door suddenly slid open next to her. She jumped about a foot in the air. But it was only a skinny Ravenclaw a head shorter than her. 

“You startled me,” Lily began.

The girl tapped her arm. “Last day tag. Pass it on or you’re the biggest loser of ’77.” And then she slammed her compartment door shut.

Lily stood there with her mouth open for several seconds. Then she marched on, all thoughts of leisure gone from her mind. 

“Biggest loser!” she scoffed. “Honestly.”

The best idea was to do the opposite of what the Ravenclaw had tried with her. She could simply walk into an occupied compartment, tag someone, and leave.

Or she could accept the position of biggest loser. 

Lily paused in front of one compartment. She could tell it was occupied — faint shadows were visible through the glass. She couldn’t hear any conversation, but perhaps that was better. There would be no awkward interruptions. 

She counted down in her mind and yanked the door open. Then she stifled a shriek, understanding very quickly why there had been no audible conversation. And then — her horror grew even more. Because she had interrupted Cecily Sprucklin, who was curled up in Dex’s lap. If their seating arrangement left anything about the situation to doubt, both had mussed hair, and faint traces of Cecily’s pink lipstick were visible on Dex’s face.

Both of them had gone very red at the sight of her. Lily was certain she looked just as embarrassed.

“I — er—” she said.

"Lily," said Dex, trying to sit up properly. The task was proving rather difficult, since Cecily was atop him. "Lily, you're—"

“Rude!” Cecily huffed. “You can’t barge in on people.”

Lily half-laughed in disbelief. “Lock the door next time, Cecily!” And she hurriedly shut the compartment door, walking away as fast as her legs could carry her.

Oh, she needed to wipe that image from her mind, as quickly as possible. She needed to— Lily paused a moment to consider her own reaction. She was uncomfortable, yes. Aghast, yes. But not _unhappy._ She was mortified, not hurt. A slow smile spread across her face. She was really, properly over it. She would need to tell the girls when she got back to the compartment.

But she wasn't ready to go back just yet. She crossed to the next carriage, grateful that she did not have to contend with ill-tempered Patrick Podmore yet again. But the sight that greeted her made her wish that the Aurors had indeed taken one last trip with them.

Agape Macnair was standing in the corridor, arms crossed over chest. Two Slytherin fifth years blocked her way into a compartment — Rowle, Lily thought, and Selwyn.

“Let me in, arseholes,” Agape said through clenched teeth.

“I won’t have a filthy blood traitor hanging round my sister,” Selwyn sneered. “So bugger off.”

“Your sister doesn’t want _you_ hanging round her,” Agape retorted. “Grow up.”

 _“Grow up,”_ Rowle said in a mocking, high-pitched voice. “Getting brave, are you? You’re not a proper Macnair. You don’t deserve the name.”

“Your mum doesn’t deserve the name,” Agape said sweetly.

Both boys reached for their pockets. Lily did not think, did not hesitate — her wand was in her hand already, and in two breaths she’d aimed a spell at each of them. Selwyn dropped, stiff as a board, to the ground. Rowle staggered around unsteadily, his legs turned to jelly. But...they both looked as though particularly bad Bat Bogey Hexes had struck them as well. 

“What on earth—” said Lily.

Agape nudged Selwyn out of the way with her foot and pushed open her compartment door. 

“Professor Thorpe taught us to pay attention to your surroundings for threats and allies,” Agape said over her shoulder. “Y’know...just a tip.”

Still frowning, Lily looked down the corridor. James was a few feet away from the two hexed Slytherins, wand in hand. She stared at the proverbial smoking gun until he stowed it away.

“I don’t suppose you’ll dock points,” James said. It was the first thing he’d said to her in days.

“Hufflepuff’s already won the cup,” she pointed out.

“Future points. Future detentions?”

Lily huffed. “I can’t do _that.”_

“Can’t you, when you’re Head Girl in waiting?”

“Funny.”

“I was being serious.”

“Oh, stop it, Potter.” She turned back to the Slytherins. “We ought to cast the counterjinxes. We’ll be at King’s Cross soon enough.”

“Someone will sort it out,” James said, shrugging. Catching sight of Lily’s expression, he sighed and undid his hex. 

“What did you hope the Bat Bogey would achieve, by the way?” Lily said. 

“You’re right,” James said, snapping his fingers. “They don’t even look that different. Silly me.”

She laughed, a short, surprised sound. Rowle, meanwhile, had figured out the Jelly-Legs counterjinx and fixed himself. Scowling, he started in Lily’s direction. 

She levelled her wand at him. “Don’t be daft. Take your friend and go.”

Rowle looked from her to James. Finally he freed Selwyn from the Body Bind; the two of them hurried off, muttering unpleasantly to each other. 

Lily put away her wand once they had gone a safe distance. James was still twisting his in his fingers, a crease in his brows as he watched the Slytherins go. He pushed his spectacles up his nose, his frown deepening. 

She strode towards him. “Hey.”

His brows rose as he turned to face her. Lily put a hand on his elbow. James looked at it like he could not understand what was happening.

“Last day tag,” she said. “Pass it on, or you’re the biggest loser of 1977.” And, smiling a little, she turned around and went back up the train corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, proper playlist on my tumblr @thequibblah, please show me some love if you enjoyed <3
> 
> now for some quick gushing, because it is 2 a.m.: it is NUTS to have reached the end of one whole year at hogwarts. it was much longer than i expected, but hopefully that made it fun for you all! i have a very involved summer hols plotline so fear not, you are far from rid of me. maybe will consider taking a one week break just to get my bearings again, but tbd — announcement will come on my tumblr. 
> 
> thank you very very much for keeping up with me. as if i am a kardashian. (i'm so tired.) couldn't have done it without you all. much much love. have i said that already?
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	29. Sun, Summer, Sonorus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Over Easter, blood purists marched in Diagon Alley; counter-protesters were present. The Evans girls have sold the Cokeworth house after Doris's death, and Lily has arranged to spend her last summer with Petunia in London. The Marauders plan an elaborate game of tag (read: assassins but magic) and most of the sixth years sign up. Frank Longbottom invites Doe to join the other first-year Auror trainees at duelling practice. Prof. Thorpe was attacked at the end of term, badly enough that though she will recover, she resigns. The Death Eater wannabes were charged with orchestrating the attack as part of a larger operation concerning compulsion-enchanted objects in Hogsmeade. Sirius signs a Diagon Alley lease, planning to move out of the Potters'. Lily and James finally have it out; Lily realises they did not kiss; James confesses he used to fancy her. 
> 
> NOW: The gang settles into new summer routines. Changes are in the cards for Germaine and Lily, Mary's in a funk, and Doe listens to the radio. A lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're late, but we made it, and that's what counts! Thank you to everyone who waited and sent me kind messages on Tumblr. As always, check there for updates to the schedule, and for a chapter playlist. And please leave a comment if you enjoyed!
> 
> The biggest heroes of my overindulgent research process were, without a doubt, the users of r/London, who banded together to give me advice on where Lily and Petunia might feasibly live in the city. They'll probably never see this, but they made my week.

_i. Sisters, Part One_

_“Good morning, listeners! It looks like we’re in for a cooler summer than last year—”_

_“—but we’ve got plenty of heat headed your way. I’m Queen Angharad—”_

_“And I’m Rhiannon, the goddess. We’re your hosts here at Sonorus—”_

_“—bringing you music both Muggle and magical, and, this morning, a very special guest: a free house elf by the name of Frippy, here to tell us about working conditions inside the homes of the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight.”_

_“That’s one square on your Sonorus summer bingo cards, by the way:_ so-called _Sacred Twenty-Eight—”_

_“I do not sound like that, and our callers will support me.”_

_“I’m terribly sorry, but that’s_ exactly _what you sound like.”_

_“Well, we are the radicals that get them hot and bothered, Rhiannon, and I’ll do my part for the cause. We’ll have Frippy on air soon, but first, off the new Seven Sickles record, ‘Siren Song.’”_

Lily woke up. It was July. 

July was Doris Evans’s favourite month of the year, partly because of her own birthday — the fifteenth — and partly because, with schools closed for the summer, she could garden to her heart’s content. And, she made certain to remind Lily when she was younger, both her daughters were home. Her family was complete. 

Lily could remember coming home after her first year at Hogwarts, fiddling with the wireless so she could catch up on the music she’d missed — new David Bowie, new Supremes — only for Doris to insist on proper summer music, 1971’s Carole King winding out of the small kitchen and filling the hallway. At fourteen she had offhandedly mentioned to Mary how much her mother loved “I Feel the Earth Move,” and Mary, being Mary, had told her, “You know that’s a song about _sex,_ right?”

Needless to say, she was not woken up by Carole King that day. When Lily looked out of the window she did not see the Cokeworth house’s back garden, though. Nor was it the view out onto Gower Street from Petunia’s old flat, which was where Lily had expected to be taken from King’s Cross. 

Instead, Petunia had hurried her into the Cortina — as if they were going to, not coming from, the train station — and driven through Camden instead of southward. Only then had Lily thought to ask where they were going, still a little uncertain. The details of London’s geography were not her forte.

“To the flat, of course,” Petunia had replied crisply. 

“Your flat?”

“Our flat.”

Lily blinked. “I didn’t think you’d already decided…” 

“Well, I had a spare moment earlier this month. Did you want to have to settle in twice? Or sleep on my sofa?” Petunia said.

Lily could hardly have argued with that. And she could not have complained about the flat itself, a ground-floor unit in St. John’s Wood. Lily had been more than a little starstruck, hefting her trunk through the main door.

“How are we affording this?” she’d whispered, pausing in the hall.

Petunia chivvied her towards the back bedroom, which was full of boxes and otherwise contained only a bedframe and a bare mattress. 

“I do know a thing or two,” she said, her tone lofty. 

Lily had smiled; there was real, happy pride in her sister’s voice, the pride from a job well done. She thought that boded well for the future.

By unspoken agreement Lily had kept out of Petunia’s hair at first, running errands for the house and setting up her room. But one week had gone by, and Burnley Street — for that was the street’s name — was less and less like a shining, brand-new adventure. 

Its permanence was starting to feel routine, and that in and of itself was unnerving. When Lily went for a Saturday morning walk and saw Lord’s instead of the old swingset, she was unsurprised — and then surprised by her unsurprise. When Lily made her morning cup of tea, reaching on instinct for the kettle to the left of the sink, the phantom tug of the Cokeworth house followed her. 

She had resolved to plant some section of the small garden plot, which her room overlooked. This was, however, at odds with what Petunia heavily hinted she ought to be doing. 

“I was supposed to work at the Ministry,” Lily had said, hesitant, when this subject first came up. 

Thus far their cohabitation had been very Muggle. Knowing Petunia’s reaction to all things magical, she had braced herself for the first spark of conflict.

Sure enough, Petunia had stiffened at the word. “Supposed to?”

“I didn’t get the job,” Lily was forced to admit. It still smarted to say. A masochistic part of her imagined how Doris would have reacted. Pulling her into a warm hug and assuring her she would get it next time, probably. 

“Oh, good.”

“Good?” Lily repeated, more surprised than outraged.

“There’s plenty to do here, so having you around might be for the best,” Petunia had said.

There were more of Doris’s things to sort through. Petunia worked weekdays, of course, and could hardly have done it herself. Lily avoided those boxes like the plague. So Petunia had suggested she get a part-time job. For instance, she could catsit for old Mrs. Roland, who lived in the flat upstairs and was, effectively, their landlady, though the lease money went to her son.

Mrs. Roland was inoffensive, mapping onto Lily’s vague memories of her own grandmothers. So too was Mrs. Roland’s cat, a bottlebrush-tailed Siamese cat named Nigel. (At least, Lily _thought_ the cat was named Nigel; some vague part of her worried that was her son’s name.) Lily would much rather catsit for her than have done any errand for Petunia’s former flatmates, a gaggle of girls of whom Lily had only met the rudest, and of whom Petunia did not like the nicest. 

But she could not bring herself to _do_ any of those things. 

By midmorning she would be kneeling in the garden, the wireless balanced on the stoop, her gloved hands muddy past the wrist. _I will_ not _kill the plants,_ Lily would tell herself.

“Are they flowers, love?” Mrs. Roland would call from upstairs, peering out a window.

Lily would swipe a sweaty tendril of hair from her forehead, and reply, “They will be, Mrs. Roland.” 

But on the first Sunday of July, she woke and did not immediately think of the absences crowding the quiet air. She hummed the new Donna Summer single as she buttered her toast, and thought she might see Doe, whose birthday it was that day and who was now only a Tube journey away from her. Why Apparate when she could enjoy the marvels of public transportation? And the palm-sized tile that was her token listed her first target in the tag game: Sara, who would be at her aunt’s home in London. 

There was something in the air, Lily thought, flipping on the wireless and finding, to her delight, “I Feel Love.” 

“Would you decrease the volume on that?” Petunia emerged from her bedroom, hunched over in her lavender bathrobe.

She’d had a girls’ night with her friends from the office and from Gower Street, most notably the unpleasant Yvonne. Lily had shut herself up in her bedroom with a Cymbelline O’Shaughnessy paperback while Yvonne and Petunia got ready, and so had saved herself an extended interaction with the girl. She was relieved to note that Yvonne had not come back with Tuney.

“It’s as quiet as it’ll get,” Lily said, which was not quite true, but she did not think Petunia would argue.

Her sister put the kettle on, shuffling to the kitchen table. Petunia shut her eyes and began what looked like deep-breathing exercises. Lily stifled a grin, and stopped the kettle before its piercing whistle could send her sister into another fount of complaints.

“Had a good night, then?” she said, setting a teacup in front of Petunia.

“Oh, yes. Norma’s been promoted,” Petunia mumbled into her tea. “She was a bit heavy-handed with the— Well, she was willing to foot the bill.”

“Tasteless of her,” said Lily gravely. She was losing the fight with her smile.

A particularly annoying advertisement jingle began to play; she scanned to a different channel, and, in a show of great graciousness, or so Lily thought, reduced the volume a little more.

“The veg from yesterday’s in the fridge. I’ll do supper if you can manage for lunch,” Lily said.

Petunia looked up, not as sharply as she would have when operating at full capacity. “Where are you off to? Not another walk, I hope — Mrs. Roland will think you gawk in the windows at Abbey Road trying to see one of the Beatles.”

“I don’t think Mrs. Roland knows Paul McCartney from Adam, Tuney.”

“Regardless.”

“Not a walk, anyway. My friend Dorcas — you remember her from King’s Cross — she lives in Brixton, and I thought I’d drop in on her.”

Petunia’s eyes narrowed further. “Brixton?”

Lily paused her chewing. “Yeah, so?”

“God, Lily, don’t talk with your mouth full!”

“Well, what’s wrong with Brixton?”

Petunia was silent a moment. “Never mind. Don’t be out too late.”

After a filling lunch, Lily and Doe strolled along the banks of the Thames. The sluggish water glimmered underneath the summer sun, more opaque than a river ought to look. Or so Lily thought; she had minimal experience with rivers anyway. 

Her family was not one for holidays — _hadn’t been,_ she corrected mentally — and the closest she’d come to this London stay was a weekend in the Lake District some years before. Only now did she look at her friend with this in mind. Doe was a London girl through and through, but had never seemed particularly cosmopolitan. Or rather, Lily didn’t have a standard by which to judge that before. Doe’s comfort with the city’s streets and its people was evident, however. She had easily counted out change for the bus driver while Lily fumbled with her purse; she had even shouted at a car that had swerved too close to them.

“What time do you have to go to Diagon Alley?” Lily said presently, when what she _wanted_ to say was, _please don’t go, and teach me how to cleverly navigate London instead._

Doe checked her watch. “Soon, I reckon. I hoped we could go to your flat first — I’m dying to see it.”

Lily hesitated. She had, unbeknownst to Petunia of course, set up anti-Apparition wards around the house. She could never be too careful, especially now that she was an of-age witch. 

“I haven’t Apparated to or from the flat yet,” she admitted. “I don’t know the safest places to go…”

Doe’s face fell. “Well, I don’t think we can take the Tube there and then to Charing Cross in time for my meeting.”

“It’s all right, we’ve got all summer. You can come round for tea or something, and meet Mrs. Roland.” After all, Lily reminded herself, this was going to be the rest of her life. She could not simply ignore the problem of magic. She summoned a smile and nudged Doe’s shoulder with her own. “It’s just like you to _network_ on your birthday.”

At that she relaxed, laughing a little. “It’s not networking. It’s just—”

“The Auror trainees’ invitation-only duelling club,” finished Lily. “That _they_ specially invited you to.”

Doe’s laughter grew louder. “Oh, stop it. I’m sure they’ll all be far better than I am, and they’ll regret it in about five minutes.” 

But her smile did not flag at all with that self-deprecation. Lily realised her friend was truly eager to learn — so eager that she did not mind a steep learning curve. It brought out her own smile in return. 

“You’ll do beautifully,” Lily said. “And you’ll be running circles around all of us in Duelling Club next year.”

At that Doe grew pensive. “D’you think they’ll still have it?”

That hadn’t occurred to Lily. “Why wouldn’t they? Something would have to force Crouch to throw out his own logic. Preemptive protection, and all that.”

“Preemptive protection didn’t help Professor Thorpe,” Doe said glumly. The news had spread through the End of Term feast — Thorpe’s chair had still been empty, up at the teachers’ table, and apparently some students had seen her packing. She would not be returning. 

Lily sighed. “No, I suppose not.” 

Being in Cokeworth for the summer had always allowed a certain separation from her magical life. She could not do any magic — though when she’d been younger, she’d threatened to quite often — and the girls had not been able to convince Abigail to Apparate them around until the previous year. All of Lily’s information came by post or _Prophet,_ as if from a distant country. 

How odd to be in that place now, to be able to cast spells freely, and to never forget the ticking machinery that was the Ministry. Of course, she’d have had a closer look if she’d nabbed the internship…

“You know,” Doe began, then faltered. 

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s stupid of me—”

“Don’t be silly. What is it?”

“I wish we both had got the Ministry internship.”

Lily half-smiled. “I was thinking the same thing, you know.”

Except Doe did not know she _had_ got it. Only Lily had read her acceptance letter. With her parents’ decree, it was moot. 

“Bloody ADA,” Doe muttered. “Whose genius idea was it to pass that right before the summer?”

“Someone who had it out for us, no doubt,” said Lily wryly. In a more serious tone, she added, “Maybe that’s part of the point? More demonstrations might happen in warm weather or something, I don’t know?”

“There’s been Muggle ones, you know. Near my house,” Doe said, lowering her voice. 

“What sort?” Lily had a feeling, from her friend’s grim expression, that the answer would not be to her liking. 

Doe seized her elbow, directing her towards the entrance to a Tube station. “Let’s get in here. Charing Cross first, if that’s all right?” At Lily’s nod, she went on. “To put it bluntly, they’re not big fans of multiracial society.”

Lily’s brows rose. She waited for Doe to say something else — but her friend remained silent. 

“Just — as a concept?”

“As a concept,” Doe confirmed.

“But — some people— I mean, people like your parents have lived here for ages,” said Lily. “What do they expect? That you’d all just — leave?”

Doe shrugged, her frustration growing more visible by the moment. “Apparently. They don’t care how long anyone’s been anywhere — not that that should matter. “

Lily reached for her hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that they’re — _wrong,_ and cruel, and just…” She trailed off, her words becoming a sigh. What could she say that would come even close to soothing this hurt?

Doe pursed her lips. “I can’t imagine what my parents think. They’re in two worlds, and neither cares about them.”

After that, their conversation faded to uneasy silence, the hubbub of the station not quite enough to fill the gap.

* * *

_ii. In Diagon Alley_

“A real flat,” Peter said, not for the first time. “A proper flat, all to yourself—”

“If you’re hoping I’ll invite you to stay out of pity,” drawled Sirius, “I won’t. At least, not so long as you’re bloody salivating over it—”

“I’m not salivating— _Padfoot!”_

Sirius snickered his way through Peter’s indignation. For his part, James had his face glued to the window, which overlooked the marketplace two floors below. The stone refreshment stall in the middle of the arcade was surrounded by queueing shoppers. People filtered in and out of doors; James could practically hear the tinkle of shop bells. It was a hustle and bustle entirely unlike his parents’ quiet estate. 

As much as James wasn’t looking forward to being the lone child in the house again, he was not blind to the glint in Sirius’s eyes. _He_ needed excitement, and distraction, and activity. And wizarding London had an abundance of all three. 

“Don’t lick my windows, Prongs,” said Sirius, and James’s charitable thoughts towards him soured. 

“You’ll regret not paying attention to your surroundings when you’re tagged out of the game.”

“But homes are safe zones,” Peter pointed out. He was beginning to sound a little nervous, despite the fact that he knew all the rules, having had a hand in writing most of them. 

James waved a dismissive hand. “I’m scoping out the marketplace to be safe. You want to get ambushed on the way to the Apparition point, Wormtail? Be my guest.”

Like most magical dwellings in London, the building — home to Dr. Filibuster’s Fireworks, which was the source of occasional faint booming sounds that rattled Sirius’s kitchenware — was Apparition-safe. If Peter wanted James to Side-Along him back to the Pettigrews’, they would need to leave from outside the wards. The exact spot was marked by the triple crescent of the Department of Magical Transportation, engraved into the cobblestone. 

Sirius scoffed. “You don’t need to scope anything out. You’ll be fine.”

“Not if we want to eat at the Cauldron.”

 _“Yes,_ even though we want to eat at the Cauldron. Blimey, you’ve been talking about the Cauldron all morning, you’d think you don’t eat like a prince at home.”

James grinned at Sirius’s eyeroll. “Would you _deny_ me a bit of _banter_ with Tom?”

“Will Moony get here all right?” Peter interrupted. 

The full moon had come a few days prior, and, as was his habit when at home, Remus had spent it alone. The other three weren’t totally familiar with _how_ he could safely and comfortably transform outside of the Shrieking Shack, but no amount of pointed questions had wrung the answer out of him. His implication was clear: he might have shared the secret itself, but Remus would not allow them to risk themselves in all circumstances.

So instead they visited the morning after, and made sure to see him often in the days preceding and succeeding the transformation itself. Today was the first day Remus had felt up to leaving home, which was why they had opted to take advantage of the sunny London day instead of meeting in Holyhead.

“He’ll be all right,” Sirius said. “He’s got the Knight Bus.” They all knew the nausea of Apparition might not agree with the aftermath of the full moon.

“It’s not as though he’d _let_ us escort him,” James pointed out. This too was a debate that they’d had at length.

“No, I suppose not…” Peter looked at his feet.

“So, I’m scoping out the market,” James said at last, as if the meandering conversation had proven his point.

In response, Sirius simply groaned.

“Well, then, I suppose you don’t want to know when your target’s around?”

Sirius’s brows rose. “Did you look at my token, wanker?”

James shrugged. “Can’t confirm or deny it—”

“—I’ll petrify you and leave you for Terrence Mulvey to find, I swear—”

“So Terrence Mulvey has me, then? Excellent.” 

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Really, though—” James looked through the window at the marketplace once more. “Bertram Aubrey’s right there, if you want to get him.”

Sirius went still. “He’s out there?”

Peter was frowning. “How do you know—”

James jerked a thumb at the glass. “He’s absolutely out there. Just came out of the clockmakers’.”

The other two crossed to the window on either side of James, peering outside. Sure enough, Bertram Aubrey’s familiar pale-blond head could be seen beneath the Cogg and Bell sign.

“I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad Moony convinced us he should play.” Sirius grinned, and was out the door in a flash.

James and Peter followed, both wearing matching smiles. They did not need to leave the safety of the flat — in fact, they probably ought _not_ to — but when faced with this choice, they would always pick entertainment over security. 

“How did you know?” Peter said as they hurried down the stairs.

“How’d I know what?” said James, the picture of innocence.

“How’d you know Sirius has Bertram Aubrey — and how did _he_ know Terrence Mulvey has you?” Peter narrowed his eyes. “Did Moony tell you, or something?”

James snorted. “As if he’d share. This was all my intelligence-gathering.”

“But that doesn’t even—”

Sirius practically tumbled out of the stairwell and into the street. James nearly collided with his back, but managed to steady himself at the last moment. Peter, hot on his heels, was not so lucky, and it took James a few moments to disentangle himself from his friend. 

Across the plaza, Aubrey looked up, as if sensing he was being observed. The sheer panic that came over him at the sight of the Marauders lasted only a second — but what a dramatic second it was. His brows rose, his mouth fell slightly open, and James thought that he was sure to drop his parcel. He did not, however. That was rather disappointing.

“Why’s he looking at us like that?” Peter said. “As if we’re going to tackle him in the middle of the market!”

That was a fairly accurate way to describe the expression on Bertram Aubrey’s face, James reckoned. 

“Probably because Sirius is looking at him like he’s going to tackle him in the middle of the market,” he said. 

“That’s giving the game away, isn’t it?”

“Come on,” Sirius said, grinning. “Where’s the fun in just walking up to him and tagging him?”

“He’s sort of frozen to the spot,” Peter said. “You could do it.”

“Or you could chase him around Diagon Alley,” said James.

“We’ll be arrested.”

Sirius shrugged. “Aren’t we just children playing a game? Surely the MLEP have better things to do.” 

He began walking, very slowly, in Aubrey’s direction. It was rather like approaching a small animal in the Forbidden Forest. It was only a matter of time before it bolted.

James could have pinpointed the exact moment when Bertram Aubrey made that decision. He had gone pale, and he was clutching the parcel to his chest. Then he looked at the path that led back to Diagon Alley proper. 

“He’s gonna run,” James said. “And we—” he glanced at Peter “—will have to wait until this chase is over before we get to eat lunch.”

“He could Apparate,” said Peter.

“No, he’s looking at the way out—”

James did not have to go on; Bertram Aubrey had already proven him right. “I’m doing my bloody shopping!” he shouted, and broke into a run.

Sirius ran after him.

“Should we follow?” Peter said.

“We _should_ probably make sure he doesn’t get arrested,” James said. 

They followed at a jog, some paces behind a sprinting Aubrey and Sirius. In James’s opinion, this pace would not last long — Bertram Aubrey was no athlete, and James did not think his best friend had made any particular effort to stay in shape in the year since he’d been banned from the Quidditch team. 

All things considered, though, they did well. Aubrey and Sirius wound through the marketplace proper and up the street, towards Diagon Alley. Shouts of alarm echoed around them. “Get out of the way!” Bertram had taken to shouting, while Sirius seemed to wisely be conserving his energy for running and the occasional whoop. They avoided a woman carrying an armful of plants — Merlin only knew what sort, James thought — and an enormous tarp-covered cart. The foot traffic would only get worse as they approached the main street. Instead of the straight route towards the Leaky Cauldron entrance, though, Aubrey ducked into a narrow alley.

“He’ll have Apparated,” Peter said, a few breathless steps behind James.

“God, I hope not. This has been the best part of my morning so far.”

But no telltale _crack_ came from the alley; when James and Peter skidded around the corner, they could make out the distant shapes of their friend and their frequent enemy, still running.

“I — don’t — deserve this,” mumbled Peter.

James wouldn’t have minded a few good whoops himself. The alley was clean, thankfully; the biggest obstacle they found themselves dodging was a clothesline, the sheets upon it still dripping. As they passed, James saw bewildered faces in the windows; he waved at all of them. One old wizard shouted at him for being cheeky. He waved with special exuberance at that man.

The alleyway suddenly opened up, spitting them into the crowded thoroughfare that was Diagon Alley. They had wound up some distance from the Cauldron, but were still on the high street’s west end. And Sirius and Bertram Aubrey were nowhere to be found.

“Bollocks,” James said.

He and Peter paused by the violently-pink facade of Sugarplum’s Sweets, catching their breath. A witch a few paces away frowned and shuffled away from them. She had a sign tucked under one arm, James noticed, though he could not read what it said from this angle. Perhaps Sugarplum’s had begun hiring salespeople to run around Diagon Alley with signs.

“Maybe we ought to go back to the Cauldron,” said Peter, unable to hide his hopefulness.

James scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Pete. Think like Bertram Aubrey — where would you hide if you were him?”

Peter sighed, but scanned the shopfronts around them. “Well, if he’s _smart,_ he’ll Apparate.”

“I said to think like Bertram Aubrey.”

“There’s Padfoot, at least.”

James followed where Peter was pointing — Sirius was indeed standing in front of Flourish and Blotts, looking put out. They waded through the shoppers to get to him.

“Bad luck,” said Peter.

“Yeah, it was,” Sirius said, scowling. “This witch and her five children got between us. What was I supposed to do, push them all over?”

James laughed. “You should come to morning practice when we’re back at Hogwarts. Two days a week of sprints, and you’ll have twice the stamina.”

Sirius gave him a baleful look. “Right, and that’s supposed to help me tag Aubrey out before Friday.”

“You didn’t see where he went?”

“I thought he might’ve gone down Knockturn Alley.”

James threw a glance at the shadowed entrance to Knockturn Alley. “If he did, I can respect that getaway.” Sirius snorted.

The three of them began to walk back towards the Cauldron, Sirius’s sullen silence keeping the other two quiet as well. When they were nearly at the top of the street, it was Peter who spoke.

“Moony’s in there.”

All three stopped to look through the open door to Potage’s, through which Remus could be seen at the shop counter. They watched with such great attention, passersby began to slow down and peer into the shop as well, expecting to spot a celebrity. 

“What’s happenin’ in there?” one stout wizard asked.

“That’s the Cannons’ new star Keeper,” James said, with an air of utmost authority. Peter stifled laughter.

The wizard let out a loud _tchah!_ “No wonder he’s not much to look at. He’s a Cannon.” 

With that, he strode away, leaving the boys in fits. Remus, meanwhile, had finished paying. He turned around and startled at the sight of them, clutching their sides with silent mirth.

“What are you all gawking in the street for?” he said, a smile spreading across his face.

James recovered enough to say, “Thought — we saw — a Quidditch player.”

“I won’t ask.” He tucked the parcel he was holding under one arm. “Shall we head to the Cauldron?”

“Yeah, Wormtail’s been _dying_ to ask you who’s got him for tag—”

“That’s not true!”

“I’m not breaking our own rules, Wormtail—”

“I _didn’t_ say that!”

“AUBREY!” Sirius yelled, dashing headlong across the busy street towards Carkitt Market once more.

Remus’s brows rose. He glanced between James and Peter, who showed not an ounce of surprise at this development. “Is that what you’ve been doing all morning?”

“Nothing like a good Diagon Alley chase to work up an appetite,” James said. “I’ve been dreaming of Tom’s surprise pies all week.”

“We know, Prongs. You’ve only mentioned it about a hundred times,” Remus said, his voice bone-dry.

“Is there anything wrong,” James said theatrically, “with a bloke _enjoying_ a surprise pie—”

“The surprise pies just aren’t that good,” Peter said, almost apologetically.

James’s jaw dropped. “How do you _not_ like being surprised? In a bloody pie?”

“I heard Gaurav Singh found a dragon scale in a surprise pie. A _dragon scale._ What the hell goes in them?”

“That’s not going to have the desired effect.” Remus murmured.

James’s eyes had gone wide with excitement. “Are you serious? _Merlin._ I’m getting twice as many pies this time.”

Peter sighed. Remus laughed, quiet though the sound was. Abruptly, however, he cut himself off.

“For goodness’s sake, Sirius—”

Without any further explanation, Remus cut through Diagon Alley, saying _excuse me_ to everyone he bumped up against. James and Peter glanced at each other. There was nothing to do — yet again — but follow.

At the crooked joint where the alleyway opened up into the wrought-iron arcade, they could see what the fuss was about. The cart they had run past earlier had been knocked over, the tarpaulin that’d covered it crumpled on the cobblestone. 

What lay beneath was a Muggle vehicle — a motorcycle, as he’d seen more often in India. Or, James judged, the _remains_ of one. It lay on one side, its mirrors shattered, its plating dented. In fact it did not seem to have been treated well even before this. Overall the scene was grim. 

“—you’re half in the street, mate,” Sirius was saying, which did not sound like the middle of an apology. “Maybe take care of your stuff, if you don’t want it to get damaged.”

“How _dare_ you!” The witch to whom the thing evidently belonged was red in the face. “You’ve totally smashed the thing. And after I’ve just sold it to the museum too!” She shook a little coin pouch in Sirius’s direction; it gave a loud _clink._ Indeed, the building they were standing just outside of was the Museum of Muggle Curiosities, James realised.

Sirius was not backing down. “Then you shouldn’t have left it _outside of the museum_ while you were selling it, you absolute—”

“Stop it, Padfoot,” Remus hissed. “Look, ma’am, he’ll pay the museum for damages—”

Just then the museum door swung open, revealing an imposingly tall man. James was not often at such a striking height disadvantage; for one dizzying second, he thought the stranger might be as tall as Hagrid. As the man stepped closer, he realised he was off by a long measure. Still, though the man was not as broad as the Hogwarts groundskeeper, and clean-shaven and brown-skinned where Hagrid was not, he seemed just as intimidating at first glance.

Until he opened his mouth. His voice was soft and assured, so much so that the boys had to strain to hear it over the hustle and bustle of the market. 

“Is that my T120?” 

Sirius’s belligerence faded. Before he could respond, the witch who’d just sold it did. “It certainly is,” she said, “and _I’m_ not giving up a Knut to fix it! You can take up the difference with this young ruffian.”

In Sirius’s defence, James thought, he did not shrink back now. “How much did it cost?”

The man shrugged. “Considering I haven’t got the faintest idea how to fix it, I can’t put a price on it. One thousand five hundred Galleons at the very least.”

“Merlin, Morgana, motherfuck,” whispered Peter. Remus blanched. Even James, who had been ready to volunteer the money, was shocked. He could not see Sirius’s expression, but he could very clearly imagine his friend’s clenched jaw. 

“I don’t have that much money on hand,” Sirius admitted. 

“Well,” the man said, “there’s only one way to settle it.”

The words didn’t _sound_ like a threat, but James bounded forward. “That’s all right. We’ll get you the money.”

Sirius grabbed his arm. “Don’t be stupid,” he said, his voice low. 

James shook him off. _“You_ don’t be stupid. It’s not as though it makes a difference to me. Gringotts is right down the road, I’ll be back in a second.”

“Prongs, you can’t—”

The man lifted a hand, and both boys fell silent. “I can’t accept that much money from a boy. You’re not even out of school yet.”

“Then...what do you want?” Peter’s voice wavered. 

The man looked at them in turn, his gaze finally settling on Sirius. “I want you to work for me, of course.”

James was sure he’d misheard. 

“I broke your motorcycle,” Sirius said, “and you want to give me a job?”

The witch, still lingering nearby, gave a triumphant squawk. “I knew he’d broken it! Didn’t I say so?”

The man ignored her. “I need someone to help fix the thing, and you’re off from school until September. It seems like proper penance to me.”

“I’ll do it,” Sirius said. Only now did James register how his gaze kept flitting towards the motorcycle, an eager curiosity in his expression. “I live just down there, I can come round every day and sort it out.”

The man looked intrigued. “Are you familiar with motorcycles?”

Sirius hesitated. “Not really — but I _could_ be.”

The man nodded, approving. “You a Ravenclaw?”

All four boys grew deeply affronted. “Gryffindor,” James said, as if it should have been immediately obvious.

The man did not take offence. Instead, he laughed. “Should’ve guessed. Monday, then, Mr.—?”

“Black,” Sirius supplied. “Sirius Black.”

The man extended a hand for Sirius to shake. “Benjy Fenwick. I’m the museum’s summer caretaker, but the proprietrix isn’t the most hands-on witch. It’s mostly me in there—” he waved at the museum “—along with one or two docents.”

Docents? The Museum of Muggle Curiosities had enough visitors to warrant _docents?_

Sirius shook his hand. “Right. Well...sorry about the motorcycle…”

“It is what it is. Did you catch him, at least?”

They all blinked. “Did I catch whom?” said Sirius.

“The boy you were chasing,” Benjy Fenwick said. “It seemed important.”

“Oh.” Sirius half-smiled. “Yeah, I got him.”

“Nice,” James said under his breath.

Fenwick smiled. “If you boys would help me load the cart, I’ll take it back inside.”

The Marauders exchanged glances. “Er,” James said, “why can’t we just levitate it back on?”

“Don’t they teach you about the theory of magical influence?” Without waiting for an answer, Benjy Fenwick knelt to pull the motorcycle upright. Sirius and James automatically reached out to help; soon they had heaved the thing onto its cart, while Remus Vanished the shards of glass that remained.

“Magical what?” Sirius said when they had finished.

“Anything non-magical is permanently altered by the application of magic. We try to avoid mucking around with spells on our Muggle artefacts.”

James had never heard of this theory, but he supposed it wasn’t the most farfetched concept. At the very least it sounded more interesting to consider than an afternoon in Binns’s class. 

Peter held the door open as Fenwick carted in the motorcycle; James noticed how the doorway widened to make room. Soon they were all standing past the threshold, which was rather crowded with five people, the cart, and what looked like the front desk. 

The museum was more dimly lit than it should have been — some spell was dampening the sunlight streaming through the front windows, so that the space beyond the desk was shadowed. 

“We charge for looking,” said a voice from the desk. A girl sat behind it, scowling at them all. If this was the museum’s receptionist, it was a wonder it made any money at all.

“It’s all right, Roxanne,” Benjy Fenwick said, sounding more than a little weary. But the chilly welcome had, against all odds, broken the awkward silence. “Thanks for your help. I’ll see you on Monday. Although, you’re all free to stay and walk around the museum if you’d like.” He shot a glance at Roxanne. “Employee discount.” Her scowl deepened.

“That’s all right,” Sirius said. “But, er, thanks. For not...getting the MLEP involved, or something.”

Benjy Fenwick only smiled.

As the Marauders trooped out into the sunshine again, James said, “I hope he’s going to pay you.”

Sirius snorted. “He’s knocked off a thousand-Galleon debt.”

“Well, maybe, but we _offered_ to pay—”

“If you ask me, we all got off lucky,” Remus said, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see the cart when you were trying to tag Aubrey, Padfoot.”

“He hid around it! What was I supposed to do?”

Remus squinted at him. “Did you push it over?”

“No,” Sirius said, a touch too late. James laughed.

“Merlin.”

“What do you mean, _all_ of us?” James wanted to know. “We weren’t even there.”

“Well, you went and asked him why he wouldn’t levitate the motorcycle—”

“It was a perfectly valid question!”

“—it was an _awkward_ question, because I reckon he’s a Squib!” Remus had lowered his voice, but he still glanced around anxiously when he said the word.

“Oh.” James hadn’t considered that. “There’s nothing _wrong_ with being a Squib, though. Why’d he make up all that rubbish about the theory of magical whatever?”

Remus shrugged. “Maybe he wasn’t making it up. Or maybe he didn’t want to tell a group of _strangers,_ Prongs.”

James put up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. Padfoot gets the blame for the motorcycle, I get the blame for the question. Everyone’s surprise pies are on me.”

Doe had worried — despite her optimism, despite her excitement — that meeting the Aurors-in-training to practice duelling would not go the way she wanted it to. She could only say she knew one of them, Frank, although Alice seemed nice enough. What if the rest of the group were awful? Worse, what if _she_ were awful, and Frank had only been trying to be nice in inviting her?

It was both more and less dramatic than she’d expected. They met in the attic room of Brews and Stews, which was a hostel and restaurant. Unfortunately B&S — as the first-year Aurors in training called it — specialised in seafood. The attic always had a faint fishy smell, despite how wide Alice cracked the windows. As a setting it was ordinary, reassuringly so. The only remarkable thing about the whole setup was the practice dummy Frank brought with him each week, a sad, understuffed scarecrow that made a more sympathetic target than any of Doe’s living, breathing classmates ever had. 

Frank had informed her, that first day, that theirs was the largest class of trainees in years. Doe had wondered how all of them would fit in the attic, which was about half the size of the airy Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom at Hogwarts. As it turned out, the largest class in years consisted of four people: Frank, Alice, Kieran O’Malley, a former Slytherin, and Roderick Payne, a Hufflepuff. 

It was quickly obvious why they had been open to inviting a newcomer. For one, the four of them seemed bored of duelling each other. For another, they were an odd number of people; Roderick’s twin sister, Penelope, came along as well, though she was not an aspiring Auror. Doe had only had the vaguest memory of the three who had not been stationed at Hogwarts, because of their houses. So, despite the open, friendly smiles of the Payne twins, she only saw Kieran O’Malley’s scepticism, her shoulders growing tight with nerves.

Until the first spell was cast. 

The stifling attic grew even warmer with the _snap-crackle_ of magic, and Doe did not have to think about anything. Not her parents, who’d been maddeningly vague about how they had heard of the ADA bill before the news had broken. Not whether she was good enough to go toe-to-toe with future Aurors. There was only the present. Her shield would need to hold. If it did not, she would need to fire a jinx back. If it did not land, she would need to anticipate the next blow. 

Doe had left the very first meeting already thinking what she’d do differently at the next one. 

On the second Sunday of the month, she climbed the creaky, carpeted stairs of the B&S, smiling despite the particularly strong odour. The attic door was cracked open; she could hear conversation on the other side of it. Doe pushed it wide and strode in, calling hello to Penelope and Alice, who were sitting on crates in one corner of the room.

The conversation came to an abrupt halt. Penelope had hushed Alice. The two witches met Doe’s gaze and held it; she looked away, hoping they had truly been talking about something private — and not about _her._

“Oh, it’s only you,” Alice said, relaxing. She shifted, and Doe saw that both girls had turned to hide what looked like a small wireless. Alice flipped it on once more, inching the volume higher.

“Alice—” Penelope said meaningfully.

“She’s _fine._ She’s no Kieran.” 

Doe had no idea what that meant. In the silence the older girls seemed to come to an agreement, and the sound of the wireless filled the attic. Doe realised she hadn’t heard conversation earlier — it had been the voices on the wireless all along. She set down her purse and pushed open a window, straining to hear better.

 _“—belated news of a troubled year at Hogwarts,”_ a woman was saying. _“Honestly, Angharad, the stories we’ve heard are nothing short of horrific. Despite Auror protection at the school, despite some of the most skilled teachers in all of Britain, Hogwarts has seen a rash of anti-Muggleborn sentiment.”_

 _“Horrific is certainly the word I’d use,”_ said another woman. _“Threatening messages, Muggle-born students attacked in corridors — I mean, fuck.”_

Doe startled, unused to swearing on the radio. This could not have been a WWN station.

_“What good are a few extra wands on hand when the castle’s as big as it is, and there’s no proper— Look, I believe kids repeat what they’re told at home, but there need to be consequences for attacking a fellow student out of prejudice.”_

_“Absolutely. Some Hogwarts students are of age — and what’s the big difference between sixteen and seventeen? You ought to know the difference between right and—”_

_“—wrong, exactly, I agree. Our sources spoke under condition of anonymity, so we can’t give you too much more, but we can assure you that we fact-check everything we share on air—”_

_“Everything, yep.”_

_“—and if you’re somehow unconvinced by literal children being attacked—”_

A snort of sarcastic laughter.

_“—we can also report that a teacher was cursed to the point of hospitalisation at the end of term.”_

Doe went still. She had not heard anything about Thorpe in the _Prophet._ Wouldn’t this sort of thing have been breaking news, everywhere?

_“We’re keeping the details quiet out of respect for the professor, but St. Mungo’s staff has corroborated an account we’ve heard from a student. The teacher was apparently targeted because of their blood status.”_

_“But the teacher wasn’t Muggle-born?”_

_“No, the teacher was not Muggle-born. They are half-blooded, and I believe they were left with a message to the effect of, ‘Blood traitors will be next.’”_

Doe sucked in a breath. The radio show hosts were silent a moment too.

“Is that true?”

It took her a moment to realise this wasn’t coming from one of the women on the wireless. Penelope was looking between Doe and Alice, her mouth hanging open. 

“Y-Yes,” said Doe. “I mean, I don’t know about the message, but the attack — yes. I don’t know how they could get that kind of information. They’d have had to talk to the teacher, or to another teacher… It might not even be true.” She hoped very much that it wasn’t.

Alice stared out of the window, her jaw set. “It’s true. We all saw it.” She scanned to a different channel; the women’s low, urgent voices were replaced by a vaguely familiar song.

“They didn’t tell us that.” Doe hadn’t taken her eyes off Alice. “They only said...she’d been hurt.”

“No, I expect they didn’t want to frighten you all even more…”

Penelope was shaking her head. “That’s...that’s unbelievable! And with all that, they might not send you back?”

“The Aurors aren’t coming back to Hogwarts?” Doe said, too loudly. She should not have been terribly surprised — she had brought up the possibility to Lily, after all — but in the immediate aftermath of the revelation about Thorpe, the idea seemed worse than ever.

Alice shot Penelope a quelling look. “We don’t know yet. They didn’t tell us until a few weeks before last time, so I wouldn’t expect much advance warning.”

“But last time it was a rush — not exactly planned far in advance,” said Doe. “Surely Crouch knows what he wants already?”

Alice’s lips flattened into a thin line. “I wish I had answers just as much as you. It doesn’t help that the program’s intake has been low this year—”

“How low?”

Penelope grimaced. _“Zero,”_ she said in a whisper, as if Auror program rejections were contagious.

Every divulgence was like a physical blow. Doe knew how selective the Auror Office was, but the steady trickle of incoming Aurors in the years above her had given her a sense of reasonable hope: it would not be easy, but she could do it. 

All of her hard work, however, was predicated on being one of the small handful of students they would choose. She could not be one of zero students. 

Doe finally found her tongue. “Why would they not accept anyone?” 

“Crouch is picky,” was all Alice said. 

That was right; the DMLE had a new head now. Could Barty Crouch put a stop to Doe’s meticulously-planned future? It was chilling to think any one person had that sort of power. Before Doe could say anything more — and before either of the girls, who now looked as though they regretted the direction the conversation had taken, could offer any reassurance — the attic door swung open.

“I love that song,” Roderick declared, a tray of biscuits balanced in one hand. He set it down on a crate. Doe had entirely forgotten they had music on, distracted as she was by the talk.

“They tried to offer us fish stew,” Frank said, “but I managed to talk them down to biscuits.”

Penelope sprang up from her seat. “Brilliant. Never let me say you’re useless, Longbottom.”

“I wouldn’t.” Frank took in Doe and Alice, who were still quiet. Lowering his voice so he would not be heard over the Paynes’ ribbing, he said, “Everything all right?”

“We’re fine,” said Alice. “I’ll tell you about it later.” She stood, putting a hand on Doe’s shoulder. “Let’s get a biscuit, and then we can work on countercurses again.”

Doe made for the tray, hoping that her unease would be gone by the time the duelling began.

* * *

_iii. Sisters, Part Two_

That morning, Abigail had finally made good on her threats.

“The interns,” she’d complained for the past two weeks, “are good-for-nothing layabouts who’ve only been hired because of Mummy and Daddy’s money. What’s the point? If any of them want Ministry jobs their parents will make it happen anyway. Why not give those places to students who _really_ could use the experience?” At this point in the rant, she would make some satisfying banging noise with whatever was available to her — a bowl, a dish, a greasy spatula that left a splat of oil on the kitchen counter.

“I know,” Germaine always said in response. She couldn’t blame her sister for whinging. She’d have done the same. 

Besides, she far preferred Abigail’s complaints to her parents’ bickering. She had happily traded the latter for the former, and all parties had taken it quite well. Abigail did not mind Germaine sleeping on her sofa, especially now that Germaine could Apparate herself where she liked. In fact, Germaine reckoned her sister had grown rather lonely. 

And the Kings had not objected either. Germaine had fed them some story about _getting closer to her sister_ and _these bonds will carry us through life together,_ and they’d entirely bought it. 

Abigail lived in an annex flat on one of London’s many hidden streets. The row, squeezed next to a playground in Chelsea, was full of magical residences. Germaine was certain she’d have accidentally Apparated into the middle of the road and caused a small-scale disaster otherwise. To make things even better, the well to-do family that owned the main house was away for the summer. The girls had the space to themselves, even if they did not enter the house.

Germaine split her time meeting with Lily and Doe, occasionally Apparating up to see Mary in Glasgow. When the fancy struck her, she would return home and take her broom to the woods. It was, all in all, a perfectly relaxed beginning to the holidays.

Abigail’s complaints, however, had started to take on a different flavour. “If _one_ more Wizengamot intern dumps unsorted files in my tray, I’ll take you into the office to help.”

Foolishly, Germaine had laughed. “Me? As if. You wouldn’t be allowed. That’s top-secret Ministry stuff.”

“The moronic interns all tell their friends about it anyway,” Abigail grumbled.

Evidently, this logic had worked with her Ministry superiors. With Abigail’s briefcase clutched to her chest so that her sister could take great gulps of tea from a paper cup, Germaine pushed through the Leicester Square station crowd like a small, highly efficient battering ram. They emerged into the sunlight with not one spilled drop of tea. 

“I should bring you along every day,” Abigail said, and Germaine had already let out a long groan before she realised her sister was smiling slyly.

They ducked into a dingy side street round the back of Leicester Square, and Abigail ushered her into a phone box. 

“I wish I could just Apparate us in,” she said, “but the office said you ought to have a badge at least…”

With a grimace, Germaine pinned said badge to her front, where it proclaimed her a visitor. And then the box was lurching downward, carrying them into the glimmering green Atrium. 

Germaine’s last visit to the Ministry had been some years prior, when Abigail had been new to her job. The Kings had been allowed to see her tiny desk on Level Two, shoved to the corner of the large room where all the Aurors sat. They had all _ooh_ ed and _aah_ ed as was appropriate. Now, she supposed, Abigail’s desk would be far nicer. She was assistant to the department head, after all. 

The sisters greeted the security witch and Germaine’s wand was registered. After that they piled into the lifts along with a horde of Ministry workers, some of whom murmured hellos to Abigail. Germaine was introduced to some, and she promptly forgot their names. When they emerged onto Level Two, she was relieved to escape the chorus of people asking, “Your sister, is it?”

But a new concern struck her. “Will I have to meet Crouch?” 

Abigail shushed her. “Mr. Crouch around here, please. I’d rather not get fired.”

“He won’t fire you,” Germaine said confidently. “You keep his life in order.”

“I know,” said Abigail without a trace of self-deprecation. “But I’m afraid you won’t meet him. He’s in meetings all morning, and he’s out for the rest of the day.”

The conversation came to a pause as DMLE staff passed by, exchanging greetings with them. Curious gazes lingered on Germaine’s visitor badge, but it seemed that the familial resemblance kept any asinine questions at bay — so far. Then they came to a large room full of desks, mostly deserted. By the maps pinned to the walls and the flashing wanted posters, she had to guess this was where the Aurors sat, or perhaps the Law Enforcement Patrol. Then they were in a quieter side corridor, all alone again.

“What’s he out of the office for?" said Germaine. "Isn’t there loads to do when you’re a department head?”

With the air of a martyr, Abigail pushed open a door bearing a gold plaque with _Bartemius Crouch, Department Head_ engraved into it. This was not the man’s private office, as Germaine had expected, but an antechamber. Still, it was suitably impressive in a way that her cramped old desk had not been: the office was furnished in tasteful dark wood and deep green leather. A fireplace was set into one wall. 

Abigail’s desk stood between any visitors and Crouch’s actual room. She reclaimed her briefcase and began to unpack the papers within it. For lack of anything better to do, Germaine levitated Abigail’s empty cup to the bin.

“You didn’t answer my last question.”

“One — moment.” Abigail signed off on a piece of parchment with a flourish, and waved her wand over it. At once it folded itself into an airplane and sped out of the open door.

Germaine resisted the urge to watch it go down the corridor. “You’ve _got_ to teach me that.”

Abigail huffed a laugh. “As for why Mr. Crouch is out, he’s not on holiday, Germaine. He’s got work that can’t be done from a desk.”

Germaine pitched her voice low. “But he’s not — an Auror. Isn’t it dangerous, then, to have him going around—”

“He doesn’t _go around,_ you make it sound like he’s having a walk by the river—”

“You know that’s not what I mean—”

“Well, I can’t _tell_ you any more than that, because you don’t work here.”

“All the interns tell their friends things anyway,” Germaine said, more as a matter of principle than because she actually thought it would convince Abigail to say anything. She earned an eyeroll for her trouble.

“You’re here to help, not gossip.” Abigail nudged her overflowing tray in Germaine’s direction. “Anything that says urgent, put in a separate pile. Anything not marked for the DMLE, put in a separate pile. Can you do that?” She stood, grabbing her briefcase again.

“I can. Where are you going?”

“Mr. Crouch meets with the Auror Office head in—” a glance at her wristwatch “—three minutes.”

Germaine suddenly did not want to be left alone. “But you can’t just go without me — what if someone comes in and asks why I’m here?”

Abigail gave her an incredulous look. “Then tell them the truth, of course! You’ll be fine.”

And without another word she was out of the door. 

Germaine spent the bulk of the next tedious hour sorting through Abigail’s papers. After the first few tense minutes had gone by without anyone storming in to demand what she was doing there, she had finally relaxed. It seemed that the Ministry took care of its own security concerns: every paper was except for the most mundane meeting request memos was thoroughly illegible, so Germaine thought they must all have needed charms to reveal their contents. 

She was nearly at the bottom of the pile when she looked up at the clock on the wall. Abigail would be back any minute. The next file had a quill wedged in it; Germaine frowned, supposing someone had signed off on the paper and accidentally left it there. She fished it out, trying to smooth the bent shaft, and dropped it into Abigail’s drawer, where a box of fresh quills sat. She had just turned back to the papers when the first memo arrived.

It fluttered to a stop in Abigail’s in tray, on top of the file Germaine had just reached for. _Oh, well,_ she thought, _Abigail will be here any second, and she can see it then._ She carefully pulled out the file beneath it — but in the process the memo fell off the desk.

Germaine sighed.

She went around the desk to pick it up. As she straightened, another memo soared into the office, settling atop the tray. 

Then another. And another.

“Paracelsus on a pogo stick,” Germaine muttered. 

If only she knew which direction Abigail had gone in, she might be able to meet her halfway. But she had glanced out into the corridor only once, immediately deterred by the mazelike paths branching off of it, as if the Ministry were a great slumbering beast and the offices lay in its veins. 

It was four more minutes before Abigail arrived. Germaine had watched the clock for every one of them; she startled upright as her sister half-ran into the office, a paper memo clutched in her hand. 

“You’ve got messages—” Germaine pointed at the tray.

“I know what they all say.” Abigail’s voice was tight. “Don’t touch anything, Germaine — in fact I think you ought to go home—”

“What? Why? What’s happened?”

Abigail did not answer immediately. She began rummaging through her own desk, knocking askew the piles Germaine had so painstakingly arranged. Germaine was too nervous to protest. 

“I’ll tell you later. In fact, here—” Abigail pulled a handful of Sickles out of her pocket and dumped them on the desk’s surface. “Go get some ice cream.”

Germaine snorted. “I’m not _five,_ Abigail, you can’t bribe me to run off for ice cream!”

Abigail met her gaze, her own expression urgent and earnest. “You’re right, something’s happened. And it would be safer for you to leave while we sort this out.”

“We?”

The answer to her question strode into the office. Barty Crouch Sr. was a stern-faced man, his moustache and hair immaculate, his robes simple but clearly expensive. Germaine froze at the sight of him, as if she were a first year caught misbehaving by a teacher. 

“Get me Montgomery — Improper Use of Magic,” Crouch said, sweeping past Germaine to unlock his office door. She was relieved; perhaps he wouldn’t notice her at all.

Abigail was already enchanting a memo. “Done, sir.”

“And Moody… No doubt Fawley’s already written to him, but we need him right away.”

“I can get him through the fireplace, sir.”

“Yes, do, please.” Crouch was about to shut the door between them when his gaze finally landed on Germaine. “Intern?”

“N-No,” Germaine began.

Abigail cut in before she could go on — thankfully. “My sister. Germaine.”

“It’s good to meet you, Mr. Crouch,” said Germaine, the words tumbling out of her in a hurry.

“Ah, I see. You’ll forgive me if I don’t have the time for pleasantries, Miss King.” With that, and a final thin smile, the door clicked shut, and the girls were alone.

Abigail’s shoulders sagged a little. But she straightened once more and made her way to the fireplace, lighting it with a silent spell. “Right, go.” She made a shooing motion in Germaine’s direction. “Level Eight’s the Atrium, you can Floo from there to the Leaky Cauldron.”

“You’re not in trouble, are you?” Germaine said, anxious.

Abigail paused, her fistful of Floo powder sending a fine dusting of green brilliance onto the carpeted floor. “Don’t worry about me, love. I’ll be fine.”

Germaine nodded. Then she snagged the Sickles from Abigail’s desk. “Thanks for the ice cream.”

_“—that was Donna Summer with ‘I Feel Love,’ her latest. Welcome back to the show, this is Sonorus, I’m Rhiannon—”_

_“—and I’m Angharad. Now, we promised to do another round of requests, but we’ve just had breaking news from the Ministry, so I’m afraid music will have to wait.”_

_“We’re just hearing that there’s been a security breach at the Whitehall headquarters, and the Ministry is now entering a protocol lockdown. No word on exactly why that is, but the_ WWN _has been assured by Ministry spokespeople that this is a routine procedure, and not yet declared a high-level threat.”_

 _“Not_ yet, _that doesn’t sound great.”_

_“Well, we don’t want to speculate—”_

_“—no, of course not—”_

_“—but, you know, fair to say that we won’t actually get an update until the Ministry's out of its lockdown.”_

_“Historically, I think, the longest one’s been six days.”_

_“Jesus Christ, Angharad.”_

* * *

_Interlude: The Apology_

Lily approached the Leaky Cauldron the Muggle way, figuring it was the safest thing — bar Flooing in directly, which was not an option for her — when it came to avoiding anyone trying to tag her out of the game. She had been meaning to do her check-in with Tom the barman on Saturdays, since it would just mean risking herself for one meal a week, but so far Petunia had found some reason to keep her home. 

She supposed she could have explained the game to her sister, but practised instinct suggested Petunia would not approve. They continued to get along decently, and Lily was certain that implying young witches and wizards were chasing her down would not go over well. 

That day, Mrs. Roland had decided not to play bridge with her friends down the road, which left Lily free to get a midmorning Butterbeer at the Cauldron. She glanced over her shoulder one last time before she stepped inside the pub.

The sight of it never failed to cheer Lily up. Its wintry warmth was exchanged for a pleasant, fresh breeze, though no open windows were in sight. Instead of the usual cast of interesting characters, the crowd in the main room was made up significantly of Lily’s classmates. It took a moment longer to place the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws at one big table, without their uniforms to identify them, but they made up the largest contingent. One table behind them she spotted a familiar pale blonde head.

Lily was sliding into the bench opposite Germaine without a moment’s hesitation. “I didn’t know you were here! Didn’t you sign in on Saturday?”

Germaine had been mid-sentence; she cut herself off to say, “Oh, Abigail kicked me out of the Ministry — I was just telling James.”

For all of Germaine’s habitual obliviousness, Lily recognised this for what it was: an attempt to subtly call her attention to the other person seated at the table, one space down the bench from her. Lily gave him a hopeful smile. 

James avoided her gaze and stood. “More Butterbeer?” This question seemed vaguely aimed at the table at large, but Lily, wilting a little, said nothing.

“Yes, thanks,” said Germaine. “Sirius keeps trying to get me Firewhisky instead.”

“How _awful_ of him,” James said drily.

Lily was not exactly twiddling her thumbs, but she might as well have been. She hadn’t spoken to James since the last day of term, and although she had been optimistic about how things had ended...well. There was the fact that he wasn’t quite looking at her.

But as if he’d guessed what she was thinking, James at last raised his brows at her. “What’s your drink of choice, Evans?”

“Butterbeer’s fine,” Lily said quickly, as if he might rescind the offer if she hesitated. “Thanks.”

He dismissed her thanks with a one-shouldered shrug, and made his way towards the bar.

Lily decided she would dwell on it. She would let things happen as they would. So she turned to Germaine, saying, “You were at the Ministry?”

“Only for a bit. Abigail wanted me to sort her files or something, she keeps saying all the interns are useless.” Germaine gave her a _can you believe it_ look. “Nothing really happened, until she came back from a meeting and told me I ought to go.”

Sirius seemed to appear out of thin air, a foaming mug of Butterbeer in hand. He sat down beside Germaine, saying, “So, just before they went into a lockdown?”

Germaine startled. “A — what?”

“Some security protocol.” Sirius took a gulp of his drink, swiping at the foam that remained on his upper lip. “Least, that’s what the wireless said.”

“Merlin, are they all right?”

“That’s all so far, I think. Tom’s got the wireless on the bar, if you want to listen.”

Germaine was off before he’d finished getting the words out. Sirius followed her, leaving Lily alone at the table once more. She could go after them and listen to the news, but they would come back and tell her, surely. She had brought a book, having assumed she would be alone. So she fished _Pride and Prejudice_ out of her purse and found the first page, which still bore a smudged fingerprint from the first time she’d read it. 

There was a dull _thunk._ James had set down a mug in front of her book. 

He slid onto the bench opposite her. “Who’d you have for tag, last week?”

Lily arched one eyebrow. Of all the things she might have guessed he’d say first, that wasn’t one of them. 

“Why do you ask?” she said in lieu of answering.

“Best way to outlast the game is to figure out the chain, of course. People get excited about who they tagged out, they brag about it—” James spread his hands wide. “And then you put the pieces together.”

It was easy to fall into the rhythm of conversation, to not question _why_ it was occurring at all after the frosty lack of greeting. 

“So...I shouldn’t tell you, because you’re more likely to guess the chain than I am, and you’ll beat me in the end,” Lily said.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Simple trade: a name for a name.”

She shrugged. “There’s not much in it for me, is there?”

James sighed. “Worth a try.”

They lapsed into silence again. Lily took a sip of her Butterbeer and wondered if this was it, and she could go back to her novel. James did not _appear_ uncomfortable, but she thought he rarely did. He was impervious enough to embarrassment that he knew how to fake it on the rare occasion it struck him properly. 

She couldn’t _not_ say anything, though. “Look, I’m sorry.”

James let out a breath. “We don’t have to get into it.” 

“Don’t we? Actually speaking to each other got us a year of friendship,” she pointed out.

He laughed without humour. “And where did that get us?”

“Nowhere we haven’t been before.”

James tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling, and for a moment Lily thought that was the end of it. But then he met her gaze again, and said, “You don’t trust me. You say I’ve got the potential to be better, or however you put that sanctimonious crap—”

She scoffed, sitting straight. “Seriously?”

“—just telling it how it is, Evans—”

“You _never_ apologised,” Lily said loudly, and James snapped his mouth shut. “You can dance around it however you want, but you thought it would be a good idea to ask me out in front of our entire year, never mind what it looked like to everyone else.” 

The words sank into the silence stretching between them.

“D’you know what I heard someone call me, the week after that?” Lily went on. “Frigid. In the Great Hall, looking directly at me. Someone else said I couldn’t take a joke. Someone _else_ said I wasn’t good enough for you anyway. You can ask any of them what they think about it—” she pointed at the table full of other sixth years “—and I guarantee you’ll get answers to that effect.”

The silence thickened, like sickly, burning toffee. A muscle ticked in his clenched jaw. Lily did not look away from his face. 

“I _am_ sorry,” James said. “Of course I’m sorry.”

She exhaled shakily. These were the words she thought she’d wanted to hear — but they were no balm at all. Irrational though it was, what Lily really wanted was for it to not have happened at all. But that wasn’t forgiveness. That wasn’t anything James could give her.

She rose to her feet. “I should be off — I have to sign in with Tom—” She held her breath, waiting for him to say something. 

For a moment — just a moment — she thought he would say something cutting and brush her off. But James just nodded, turning back to his drink. 

There was hardly anywhere else to go. Lily wove through the tables towards the bar, where Sirius and Germaine were listening to the wireless. 

She had been bracing for a verbal blow. _He’s right,_ Lily thought, dazed. For all that she wanted to believe in the best from him — and in fairness he had proven her right several times — she was always prepared for the worst. 

But was that because of him, James? Or was it the other people in her life who had resisted her second chances? 

No, _that_ wasn’t fair. There had been Severus, true, but things were going well enough with Petunia. If she gave up on optimism, who was she?

A hand closed around her elbow.

“News again?” complained the lone wizard at the bar. 

Sirius raised his brows, as if to say _what’re you going to do about it?_ Germaine, meanwhile, turned the dial from what sounded like a jazz station to the news. 

_“—remains in security lockdown, but we have a statement via owl coming in from the Minister’s press team, signed off by senior advisor Lucille Bones. Madam Bones writes that the security breach that’s send the Ministry into lockdown is to do with cursed objects. Curse-Breakers are investigating, we’ve heard that Minister Minchum is safe and unharmed, and they’re confident the matter will be handled promptly and safely.”_

_Cursed objects?_ Germaine mouthed at Sirius, who grimaced. All she could think of was how Abigail had said not to touch anything. Her sister had sent her away, and Germaine had probably been one of the last few people to leave the Ministry before it had locked down.

Suddenly nervous, she checked her pockets. What if, somehow, she’d brought one of those cursed objects back with her? All her fingers met was lint. She heaved a sigh of relief.

“You all right?” Sirius was staring at her.

Germaine coughed, looking away. “Fine. A bit shocked, is all.”

He nodded. “Your sister will be fine, I’m sure.”

Would she? Abigail had an important job, one that brought her very close to a very important man. Who wouldn’t jump at the chance to use her to get to Crouch?

_“—one has to wonder, Andrew, if these objects have anything to do with the Hogsmeade murders in December, which were tied to a smuggling ring operating through Dervish and Banges—”_

Sirius swore under his breath. “That won’t look good for the Auror Office, will it? If a case they couldn’t close comes back to bite them so soon?”

Germaine traced shapes in the condensation on the bartop. “You’re right,” she mumbled.

“Either way…” Sirius took a big gulp of Butterbeer. “We’ll find out soon.”

James dropped his hand from Lily’s elbow the moment he’d caught her attention, as if he’d been burned. 

“Wait,” he said, half an exhale. He hadn’t planned any further than that. She’d turned, expectant, but she didn’t say anything. 

What was James supposed to do, just let her walk away? His apology had seemed to hurt more than anything; she had walked off with a curiously crumpled expression. _He_ hadn’t done that, had he? 

She looked so alone sometimes. James could still remember the years she had spent closer to Snape than any of the Gryffindor girls, how she had so often walked the Hogwarts corridors in solitude. She’d always smiled, though. He tried not to think of her in her sister’s flat, alone again, still smiling.

James carried on the way he always had: on instinct. “Not getting along with you is bloody annoying, and I don’t like it. So, clean slate.”

“We can’t clean slate each other forever,” she said, her mouth twisting into a half-smile. 

“No,” James agreed. Nor did he intend to. “This is the last one. No fuck-ups here on out.”

He wasn’t totally blind to how this might play out — but the risk was lower now. The secrets were out; they had said all the worst things they could say to each other. She, at least, knew what he had been hiding.

Lily sighed. “I shouldn’t have said what I said, in May. That you were just trying to get close to me to—” She shrugged. He didn’t need help filling in the blanks.

“I know.”

“But you’re still saying tabula rasa.”

“You did too,” said James, shrugging. 

Her answering smile was small but warm. 

“Don’t get teary on me, Evans.” 

He meant it, but he said it mostly to deflect some of that warmth; the force of it felt like too much at once. It worked; she scoffed, rolling her eyes. 

“I’m serious. None of this dramatic, cliff’s edge, rowing shite,” James said. “It’s bad for health.”

Lily snorted. “I get the point. We’re on our last straws, the both of us.”

He held out his hand. She shook it firmly.

“So long as this isn’t weird for you,” she said, gesturing between them. “I mean, I’m not so vain as to think—”

“Christ, Evans. I’m over it,” James said. He tucked his hands into his pockets. He meant it, he realised. He did not look at her and see what could’ve been. He just saw what was. And he was perfectly happy keeping it that way.

She nodded. “That’s good. I’m glad. Good.”

“Would you sit down now? Our prime spot’s going to be poached by One-Eye William over there—”

“All right, all right—”

They went back the way they’d come, settling onto opposite sides of the table. 

“So, the game,” James said, eliciting a groan from Lily. “Shut up, I’m focused on winning, and if you’re not with me then you’re against me.”

“I know you’re getting at something, so do us both a favour and get to it, James.” She propped her chin in her hands, imitating rapt attention.

He made sure to give her a greatly offended look. “So, go against me in a more formal sense. Bet on it.”

None of the Marauders had taken him up on his bets, much to James’s dismay. Lily was an unconventional choice, to be sure — Germaine would have been amenable — but something told him she would be too curious not to hear him out.

As he’d expected, she sighed. “Really?”

James gave an expressive shrug. “I know, I know, it’s daunting. You think I’m better at this game than you.” 

She had implied as much earlier, when she’d refused to tell him who she’d tagged. But true to form, Lily laughed as if he’d made the most outlandish claim she’d heard all day.

“I wouldn’t go _that_ far. You have a way of…” She waved a hand. “Doing your funny Marauder business to unearth bits of information. I don’t know if it’s fair.”

He suppressed a laugh at that description. “Then here’s what we’ll play for. I lose, I have to tell you one castle secret you don’t already know.” James paused to let the offer sink in. 

She made a noise of disbelief. “You’ll tell me what colour the floor tiles are in the boys’ loo.”

“They’re grey stone, like everywhere else. I’ll make it _good,_ Marauder’s honour.”

“That’s an oxymoron.”

“And yet you’re at the bargaining table.” James grinned. He was rarely uncertain about things he said or did, and most often when he was it concerned Lily Evans. But this was not one of those moments — it confirmed for him that he had done the right thing in stopping her. 

Lily huffed an exasperated laugh. “Fine, for God’s sake. Person who lasts longest in the game wins?”

He nodded. “What’ll I get?”

She spent a long time thinking, and James was content not to interrupt. They drank their Butterbeers in a comfortable silence, for once. 

“I’ve got it,” said Lily.

James sat up. “Oh, good. I thought you were waiting until the stars had properly aligned.”

She rolled her eyes. “If I lose, you can come up with a prank to get me a detention. I’ll do exactly what you say — but it’s just _one_ detention’s worth of ridiculousness.”

This, he had not predicted. James let out a low whistle. “Evans,” he said solemnly, “you came to play.”

* * *

_iv. Home and Away_

Mary scanned the _Prophet_ ’s front page one last time. She and Lily had already discussed most of it: the second consecutive day of the Ministry’s security lockdown, disorganised demonstrations in Diagon Alley still protesting the ADA law.

“I hadn’t even noticed they were protesting,” Lily had said. “Which was the point, I suppose, so they couldn’t be arrested, but it’s not much of a protest then, is it?”

“It’s still on the front page of the _Prophet,”_ Mary pointed out. 

The witch and her sign flashed back at her as she tossed the paper away: _WE ASSEMBLE, THEY DISSEMBLE. REPEAL ADA, STAND AGAINST HATE._

“I tried to do the crossword today,” Mary said; the conversation had fallen into a glum lull, as it tended to do when the girls were done dissecting the always-grim headlines. “But then it moved. Is it supposed to do that?”

She stretched out along the sitting room sofa, the phone wedged into position. Lily’s laugh crackled in her ear. 

“That’s part of the fun, yes.”

“I thought my copy had been hexed or something.”

“I hope you’re joking, Mare.”

“I’m dead serious!”

“The _Prophet_ is impervious to hexes or jinxes that alter the text on it,” said Lily. “So you can fold it up with a spell but you can’t change the headlines. For obvious reasons.”

Mary hadn’t thought of that before. “Now that you say it, it makes perfect sense. But is that common knowledge? Am I stupid?”

“No, Lavinia Clearwater told Doe, I think, last Christmas…”

“Oh, that’s right.” Mary did not remember hearing about that.

“Are you all right?”

There was nothing like being asked if you were all right, Mary thought, to put you in a mild panic. “Fine, why do you ask?”

Lily paused. “You sound quiet, is all.”

Mary bit her lip. She _felt_ quiet. The same discomfort that had dogged through end of term had persisted into the summer, despite how much she loved being at home. She had hoped Marauders tag would have kicked some excitement back into her. But it was becoming clearer that she would need to look elsewhere for her jumpstart. 

“I’ve just been in a mood,” she confessed. “But I think I know what’ll fix it.”

“What’s that?”

Mary twirled the telephone cord around one finger. Her dad was always telling her not to, that it would spoil the thing. “My cousin’s won a ten day holiday, and she doesn’t want to take her mum. So I thought I might go with her. I’ll have to forfeit the game, which is a real bruise to my ego, and I won’t be able to see you on my birthday…”

To her relief, Lily’s voice was suffused with warmth. “Oh, Mare, that sounds brilliant! I’ll miss you, obviously, but none of us would blame you for holidaying instead of seeing us. Which of your cousins is it?”

“Shannon. She’s Da’s brother’s younger one.” 

Mary might not have considered it were it any of her other cousins. But Shannon, who was a year below her in schooling but only a few months younger, had always been friendly at family get-togethers. They were not the best of friends, but they were friends in the way cousins were — close by process of elimination, when they were forced to be.

“And where would you go?”

“Skye. i’ve only been once, just for a day. But Shanny says Portree is supposed to be lovely.”

“Blue skies, blue water,” Lily said, wistful. “I’m jealous already.”

Mary laughed. It felt right when she’d said it, and now Lily’s excitement was contagious. “You can help me pack.”

“Thanks a ton. Do you plan on leaving a trail of heartbroken boys in your wake?”

She heard the unspoken question. Mary had not sought out a boy since Cecily Sprucklin’s diary, and had expressed little desire _to_ seek out a boy as the term had come to a close. Would she be comfortable doing so outside of Hogwarts, beyond the effects of its rumour mill?

Mary didn’t know the answer to that question. But she did think that a boy was not going to solve her mood — they rarely _solved_ things.

“Probably not,” said Mary, more breezy than she felt. “I think I’m off boys, Lily.”

The silence that followed was dubious — or so it seemed to Mary.

“Well, good for you,” Lily said slowly. “If you want to talk about it—”

“Not now. But thank you.”

“Of course. You’d better take loads of photos, by the way. I want every moment of this trip documented.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Boys or no, I plan on looking stunning, and we’ll need the photos for posterity’s sake.”

Doe arrived earlier than usual to the next Sunday’s meeting, and was greeted by voices filtering through the attic door once more. This time she knew they did not belong to Alice or Penelope Payne. 

After the previous week’s radio show revelations, Doe had asked Alice how she could listen to the program on her own wireless. Thankfully, it required no changes to the actual appliance, but the station was an ever-changing channel, with each week’s frequency announced only the night before. There was a password too, a modified charm that had to be spoken within ten seconds of scanning to the right channel, so that no one could stumble upon it.

Doe had been taken aback by such rigorous protective measures — but only at first. The women who hosted Sonorus presented a much more radical view of the news and of wizarding society at large than she’d ever heard from the WWN or the _Prophet._ When not helping in her parents’ shop, she’d tuned in eagerly, listening to Rhiannon and Angharad criticise the Ministry, rip apart blood purists, and interview Squibs, goblins, house elves, and witches and wizards too. They called magical people _wixen,_ as a matter of fact, to represent a spectrum of identities not covered by either ‘witch’ or ‘wizard.’ 

All this came amidst a mixture of music. Doe was treated to delightful sequence of Muggle and magical artists, with Celestina Warbeck following Shirley Bassey, and the Hobgoblins before Joni Mitchell. Mary would have been stunned. And Doe’s parents would have found Sonorus fascinating.

But she did not show the channel to them. She told no one about it, and did not discuss what she heard on it with anyone but Alice and Penelope. None of her friends would have reacted to the show with anything but excitement, Doe knew. Still, the caution of its hosts made her feel as though she should not discuss them on bustling streets, or in the Leaky Cauldron.

_“—another interview Sunday here at Sonorus, we’re your hosts, Angharad—”_

_“—and Rhiannon. We’ll go to advertisements first, but stick around for the Sex Pistols and our interview!”_

Doe set down her things and stretched, smiling at Alice and Frank, who were sitting around the wireless. “No biscuits today?” she asked.

“No need,” said Frank. “Roderick told me his mum’s sending us pastries. Mrs. Payne’s an excellent baker.”

“And her biscuits don’t taste ever so slightly of fish,” cut in Alice, grinning.

“That’s cruel, Al,” he said. “Mrs. Angler just _loves_ fish. Who are you to take that away from her?”

“I’m not! I’m free advertising. I tell everyone I know to eat at the B&S. D’you know, the other day, Dad sent one of his snobbiest clients here to try the soup? Just based on my say so?”

“Did they like it?” Doe said.

“Well,” said Alice, “Dad had to talk her down from cancelling every order she’d ever made with him, past ones included, so I don’t think she and Mrs. Angler got on very well.”

“Poor Mrs. Angler,” said Frank. “Your dad could commiserate with her.”

“He’ll have Mum imitating fish biscuits in a week,” Alice said, shuddering.

They all laughed as the guitar of “God Save the Queen” faded away, falling silent so they could hear the show.

_“Welcome back, listeners, this is Sonorus, and — no more biting around the bush, Rhiannon, because we’ve got a fantastic interview lined up. Suspense be damned, I’m so excited to speak with our next guest.”_

_“You’re not alone. Pinch me if I get too excited.”_

_“I won’t hesitate to.”_

_“Don’t pick a fight with me. Angharad wants to bicker, everyone, but I’d much rather chat with organiser Ruth Walker, a spokesperson for Unity and Equality. You might remember them for marching against the blood purist creeps who gathered in Diagon Alley in April.”_

The name made Doe start. But before she could untangle her surprise, the hosts were already speaking again.

_“A very warm welcome, Ruth!”_

A third voice said, _“I’m so glad to be here, speaking with both of you. The work you’ve down on your show is such an inspiration.”_

 _“It’s all part of the fight, we hope,”_ said Rhiannon. _“Can you tell us a little bit about what Unity and Equality has been working towards?”_

_“Certainly. Minister Minchum talks a lot about standing united against threats to wizarding Britain, but let’s be honest — Voldemort is not a threat to everyone. He and his followers stand against a subset of the magical populace. The Minister is correct in saying that we can only dispel this threat if we act as one. But are we, in practice, on equal footing?_

_“We all want unity — but we can’t be united unless we’re equal, and we cannot_ be _equal unless we are, all of us, fighting for the rights of those less fortunate than ourselves. So U and E go hand in hand…”_

“Dorcas!”

She realised, belatedly, that Alice had been speaking to her for quite some time. Doe had been frowning at the little wireless, trying to reconcile the truth of what she was hearing with what she _knew._

No. What she _thought_ she knew.

“Sorry,” Doe said, sitting down on one of the crates. “Sorry, I—”

Alice squeezed her shoulder. “Are you all right? Do you need water, or something? Frank, go get her water!” Frank leapt to his feet.

Doe shook her head more insistently. “I’m really all right. I was startled, that’s all—” She glanced at the wireless again.

“By...something they said?” Frank asked, uncertain.

“Some _one_ ,” Doe corrected. She swallowed. “That’s my mum.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MORE references and people to thank: my diagon alley layout is inspired by [this](https://www.deviantart.com/ithildins/art/Diagon-Alley-Map-839785332) wonderful map by deviantart user ithildins. for the locations of the leaky cauldron and the ministry, i referred to madasafish's essays, because duh. finally my reference for the ministry is hp lexicon, but i made some changes based on the fact that the ootp level 2 is WAY too small. though st. john's wood is real and really near abbey road, burnley street is fictional. any weird inconsistencies are definitely on me!
> 
> anyway, i know this chapter was a metric ton of setup but i hope i made the journey fun regardless! it was weirdly hard to write even though i *knew* what was supposed to happen to an almost exact detail, but some scenes inserted themselves anyway. also, james and lily really just took their scene wherever they wanted. smdh
> 
> the next chapter is called "silly games," for the janet kay song that will sadly not release for two more years in the fic time. i can promise some slowing down (i always say this but don't deliver...) and some ~secondary romance~
> 
> comments are love and happiness. thank you, as always, for reading <3  
> xoxo quibblah


	30. Happy Coincidences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Mary's had a rough year, after she snogged Chris Townes while he was dating Cecily Sprucklin, only to have Cecily turn on her and spread a fake diary full of her supposed sexcapades through the school. Wanting to get away from it all, she decides to go on holiday with her Muggle cousin. Doe's been practising her duelling with the first-year Aurors in training in Diagon Alley. Lily's in London with Petunia now, and though the sisters are getting along Lily is restless. Sirius is living in Diagon Alley, and after a run-in with a motorcycle he's got a job fixing it at the Museum of Muggle Curiosities, with Benjy Fenwick. James's girlfriend, Marissa, is working at the Daily Prophet.
> 
> NOW: Sometimes the person you run into is the very last person you want to see — but such things have a funny way of working out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry sorry sorry for the delay! It's been a wild, wild holiday weekend, and then SO bloody much had to happen in this chapter. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy, and please send your comments, kudos, and asks my way, they are much appreciated. Thanks for reading <3

_i. Forfeit_

_"—that's that for the Ministry shutdown, in case any of you were wondering if Minchum and co. would be breaking the historical record for longest lockdown. No word yet on who's going to get the axe for this, but you have to expect it's coming soon, right?"_

_"I certainly think so, Rhiannon. The Ministry seems quite confident that they've narrowed down a culprit. So it's the waiting game for us."_

__

Mary had never been on holiday with someone who _didn’t_ know about magic. She’d never thought this would be a problem. After all, she was not yet seventeen, and so, knowledge aside, she was essentially a Muggle during the holidays. But this one was testing her in ways she had not anticipated.

In every family, every cousin plays a very specific role. The same applied to the Macdonalds. Shannon’s brother, Steve, was in an engineering course, but aside from this wise, marketable decision he was the family degenerate. He was the warning story to all the younger cousins. He had taught Mary many, many a drinking game.

“I’m helping out my little cousin, the way I see it,” Steve would always say. “She’s gonna have to watch out for disgusting men. Mare, how about a self-defence class?”

Sarah Lee was the tittering girly one. Adam was the one most likely to turn out a serial killer (Mary swore up and down that she had caught him beheading worms in the garden one Easter). Andrew, Mary’s younger brother, was the quiet one. Mary herself was the outspoken one, with far too many opinions and more self-assurance than a teenage girl ought to have — or so her aunts and uncles thought, at least. 

Shannon was the good one. Shannon had _always_ been the good one.

That wasn’t to say that she was a goody two-shoes. Mary would never have been able to stand her if that were the case. But Shannon was easygoing. She did not demand too much from adults at family functions, she stayed quiet instead of getting into shouting matches with Uncle Jeremy, and she did what she was told. Mary reckoned the phrase Shannon used most often around family was “I don’t mind,” as in she didn’t mind watching Andrew, she didn’t mind eating fruitcake though Mary _knew_ for a fact she did not like it, she didn’t mind going on last-minute errands. 

But Shannon “I don’t mind” Macdonald was not the girl that Mary came to see the morning that they were to catch the train to Portree.

“Do you think we can sneak off and hitchhike there?” was the first thing Shannon had whispered to Mary, out of earshot of her father.

Maybe a harmless question, but Mary’s intuition had said otherwise. It was time to revise her expectations of how this holiday would play out. Goodbye, wise decision-making thanks to sensible, grounded Shannon. Hello, mistakes. Mary had to make a concerted effort to resist suggesting they take a Portkey.

She shouldn’t have been too surprised. After all, she’d only ever seen Shanny with the rest of the family, or not so far away from them. She did not know what Shannon _alone_ was like. And it turned out that Shannon was like many teenage girls — good at hiding what she felt, and eagerly flirting with rebellion. What better time to practise some rule-breaking than with one’s notoriously rule-breaking cousin?

 _Not this time,_ Mary thought, more a plea than a resolution. She was ensconced in a deck chair facing the loch, which she’d had to drag all the way to the sandy strip of beach from their pastel-pink cottage. 

“Hello, sunshine,” she muttered to the water.

Shannon’s shadow fell across her. “Mare, aren’t you coming into town?” 

“Oh, was there something you wanted to do?” Mary said, her dismay mostly hidden.

Shannon’s thousand-watt smile dimmed a little. “There was a café on High Street we’ve got a few vouchers for… And I thought we could do a boat ride on the loch in the afternoon. Meet some other people.”

At once Mary felt guilty. After all it was Shanny’s holiday, that _she_ had won by phoning into a radio show every day since January or something similar. _She_ had offered to take Mary along. And so, despite the fact that Mary wanted to relax, she ought to stop being a brat and start doing what her cousin wanted to do. 

“You’re right,” said Mary quickly, “I’m being stupid. But in the interest of _not_ being violently sick on the boat… Maybe we ought to save that for a later day, so I can prepare myself mentally?” This earned another smile from Shannon. “We can walk around the village after we eat instead.”

“Let’s, then.” Shannon’s smile turned sly. “Maybe we’ll meet some _boys.”_

Mary had been in the middle of disentangling herself from the deck chair; she froze, halfway through lifting it up. 

“Oh, Mare, you’ve always had twiggy arms,” said Shannon, hauling the chair up easily. “Tie my hair back, would you?”

“I like my arms twiggy,” Mary mumbled, but she did as her cousin said, pulling back her straw-blonde hair with the elastic on her wrist. 

She followed one step behind Shannon and the deck chair, mind whirling. She could very easily have just _told_ Shannon that she did not want to talk about or think about or generally at all consider boys at present. But she didn’t want to explain the awful humiliation of the diary, and the whole ordeal of who Cecily Sprucklin was — or who _Mulciber_ was, even, and _why_ he so hated her…

And, well, Mary did not want to tell her cousin, who liked her forthrightness but was overall still a _good person,_ that she had — with full knowledge of the fact — kissed a boy who had been dating someone else at the time. 

Because there was a point at which _good people_ would start passing judgment. She’d escaped that fate with Lily during term, by a combination of circumstances that Mary guiltily felt relieved for. What if Shannon dumped her like so much chaff? And then every holiday from now on, Mary would have to hear Sarah Lee coo about her husband. Maybe Shannon would tell Steve too that Mary was bad news, and she would be stuck forever fending off Serial Killer Adam at Christmas. 

It was a warm, sunny day, with golden light catching the shimmering, gentle waves on the loch. Shannon was wearing a pale pink sundress, which flapped behind her in the breeze. It was really quite pretty. Too bad that Shannon was much shorter, and her things would never fit… Mary’s own cutoffs were designed for solitude, not company. She would have to change. 

She moved into the cottage, murmuring some excuse as Shannon set down the deck chair, and walked in a state of half-awareness to her bedroom. She sat down on the bed instead of going to the closet. There was a portrait over the unused dresser of a duck by a pond, nibbling daintily at the ground. 

Mary stared at the duck and felt her armour chipping away. She was just a girl. And she was tired of trying to be A Girl, _The_ Girl; as much as she liked the idea of it, she didn’t enjoy how it felt on her skin anymore. She didn’t want to impress everyone who caught sight of her. Maybe it would be nice to just be...liked.

A lump rose in her throat. Mary fisted her hands in the quilt. The duck grew blurry.

There was a knock at the door. “Ready when you are,” Shannon called. 

_Pull yourself together,_ Mary told herself. She hopped off the bed and changed her top. She felt around her suitcase and found the reassuring cool wood of her wand, buried underneath her clothes. Then she rearranged her expression into a smile and pulled open the door.

Shannon made a face. “I thought you’d keep me company in a dress.”

“Please. Your dress is a standout. It deserves to have its moment.” Mary plucked her purse from the coat rack. “I’m ready.”

“I think I might never leave,” Shannon said, her eyes wide.

Mary had always been a city girl, despite growing up on a farm; she preferred crowds and constant bustle. But even then she could see her cousin’s point. Portree was charm incarnate. The harbourside shops, like the cottage where they were staying, were painted bright colours. Windows were bursting with flowerboxes. Even the fishermen’s stalls did not seem particularly offensive in the context of the rest of the market. 

“Your ma would never move here,” Mary said, smiling. Shannon’s mother’s distaste for the seaside was part of the reason that Mary had been invited on this trip. 

Shannon rolled her eyes. “Ma would have to make do.” 

Out of the market they went, and onto the high street. They passed a greengrocer’s, and the girls agreed to stop by on their way out of town so they could restock their fridge. Several buildings down was a pub, the Jolly Judge, with a big poster in its front window. Shannon gasped at the sight of it.

“Country dancing? Mare, we’ve _got_ to go, we’ve simply _got_ to— Let me write down the date so we don’t forget—” She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a pocketbook.

But Mary was not looking at the poster. She was not looking at the pub at all. Her gaze was fixed instead on the neighbouring building, which was also a pub. What was the point of that, she wondered? A pub right next to a pub? 

Where the Jolly Judge was well-kept and friendly-looking, this pub was far more rundown. It seemed as though the Jolly Judge was a tourist trap — as the country dancing event seemed to prove. Its neighbour, by contrast, was not particularly appealing. It simply _was,_ with a purple facade that had faded to lavender, smudged windows, and an abundance of identical purple posters plastered to its front. It was called Portree’s Pride, with a smaller sign underneath the name that boasted it was established in 1349. Mary’s father would have approved of its authenticity.

For her part, Mary had more questions the more she looked. Had Portree even existed in 1349? Had it been named Portree back then? How did a six-hundred-year-old pub survive? She frowned. There was something familiar about it too, only she could not at all put a finger on _what._

“Have you been listening to me at all?” Shannon’s voice cut through her reverie.

Mary blinked. “No,” she admitted. “What did you say?”

“That we could dance, Sunday night. You don’t need mental preparation for that, do you?” Shannon teased.

Mary shuddered. “Mum made us take lessons for this exact reason.” 

More accurately, Ruolan had pushed Mary and Andrew towards traditional Scottish activities lest they seem all the more foreign to their peers. Of course, being able to dance a jig had wound up rather useless at Hogwarts, and Mary didn’t think Andrew remembered a single step they’d been taught, but the intent had been there.

“It’s settled, then. So long as you don’t mind doing it the night before your birthday.” Shannon took her by the arm and steered her down the road, past Portree’s Pride. “What were you looking at?”

Mary glanced over her shoulder at the purple walls. “The pub.”

Shannon looked too. “Oh. I thought you saw something in the garden.”

“I mean, not the pub you were looking at, the other— Hang on, the garden?”

A crease appeared between Shannon’s brows. “Ye-es, the garden. The one we just walked past. With the big, forbidding gate, and the ‘trespassers will be prosecuted’ sign?”

“The…” Mary trailed off, stopping short and turning on the spot to face the same section of street again. A sneaking suspicion rose in her mind. She pointed a finger squarely at Portree’s Pride. “That garden?”

“Of course, that garden. What _other_ garden do you see here?”

One of the pub’s front windows squealed open, and a wizened old man stuck his head out of it. He had frighteningly blue eyes, and his rictus grin revealed one single tooth. He caught sight of Mary, and swept off his pointed hat in a show of gallantry.

“Mornin’, lass!” he shouted. 

Mary did not reply, realising that Shannon would not see what she saw, and would come to the — quite understandable — conclusion that Mary was absolutely off her rocker. The wizard, for that was surely what he was, did not seem to require an answer, and was gone in a moment. 

“Right,” Mary said, a moment too late. “That garden. The garden. Right, that’s what I was looking at.” 

At last she had bothered to read the posters on the pub’s front facade. The rich, bold purple of the paper seemed to be the shade that the worn paint had once aspired to. And the yellow, bespelled letters explained why. The text was moving; Mary had been so perplexed by the pub as a whole that she had not even noticed earlier. A fluttering Golden Snitch accented the headline: PRIDES WEEK — LISTEN ALONG TO EXHIBITION MATCHES & DRINK OUR PRIDES SPECIALTIES, SINCE 1527!

 _That_ was why the pub’s name had rung familiar in the first place. Pride of Portree was a Quidditch team. And Portree was a magical town. Mary might have expected a totally Muggle holiday, just as she’d expected the Shannon she knew from family gatherings, but neither, it seemed, was in the cards.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” The concerned line in Shannon’s brow deepened further. “I shouldn’t have forced you to come into town today…”

Mary shook her head quickly. “No, no, it’s really nothing. I just thought I saw someone I recognised, and...it was a bit distracting.” 

She began to walk down the street again, making a beeline now for the cafe Shannon had wanted to eat at. The pub’s magic had to be quite strong, if it had been hidden on the town’s main thoroughfare for so long, but Mary did not want to risk calling attention to it. 

“Really? Do any of your schoolmates live here?” Shannon said with interest. “I thought you said most of them are English.”

“Most of my friends live down south,” said Mary. “I don’t _know_ anyone who lives here, but I suppose it’s not out of the question…” Especially considering the town was not the sleepy Muggle settlement she’d assumed it was. 

“I’d love to meet some of them.” Shannon’s smile turned wistful. “Lucky you, getting to board… You wouldn’t have liked Notre Dame at all.”

“I wouldn’t have liked a girls’ school at all,” Mary corrected before she could think better of it. She hurriedly tried to backtrack. “I mean, St. Margaret’s can be a bore too,” she said, referring to the very-much-fictional school her Muggle relatives thought she attended. 

Shannon gave a disbelieving snort as she pushed through the cafe door. It announced their entry with a merry tinkling. 

“What on earth could be boring about boarding school in the Highlands? If I were Andrew I’d be green with envy.”

The girls found a table by an open window overlooking the harbour. Mary took notice of how Shannon nudged the two chairs, so that they could both enjoy the view. She smiled fondly despite the tricky conversation. It was impossible to think badly of her cousin, boys be damned. 

“Andrew would have been homesick every night if he’d boarded,” Mary pointed out. The excuse her parents gave for their different schoolings was that Mary had won a scholarship, which was the only reason they had let her go at such a young age. “And so would you, for that matter.”

Shannon laughed. “Would I have been homesick, or would Ma have been sick for me?”

Mary shrugged. “A bit of both. Look, let’s have a deal. I’ll take you to London for a weekend as thanks, and you can meet my friends then. So long as you make sure your mother stops trying to get us to have tea with those awful Notre Dame girls.”

“Done. Although, you really don’t have to _thank_ me, Mare. It’s not as though I’m paying for any of this.” Shannon gestured to the cafe. 

“I do,” said Mary, jumping to her feet. “Save your voucher. I’ll pay for brunch.” Shannon opened her mouth to protest, but Mary shook her head forcefully. “I don’t want to hear it, Shanny. You just sit, and make conversation. Find a cute boy or something.”

And before Shannon could make another protest, Mary was weaving through the tables towards the counter. She ordered them the standard breakfast fare, plus a pair of pastries Shannon was sure to love. A brief, polite argument with the cashier later, Mary had decided to wait and bring over the tea tray herself. 

What would Shannon say, she thought, if she knew that Mary did not study geometry and Shakespeare at St. Margaret’s, but instead Charms and Potions at Hogwarts? Surely she would react the same way she had when Mary had seen through the concealment spell on Portree’s Pride, but worse.

In a few days, though, Mary would turn seventeen, and then she could _show_ her cousin. That wasn’t a violation of the Statute of Secrecy, was it?

But in the same breath she considered what such a revelation would achieve. It was worse than the idea of a boarding school scholarship. Shannon would know there was a parallel world she had no hope of seeing or knowing anything about. Mary was well aware of how Lily’s sister reacted to magic, and though she felt certain Shannon wouldn’t be so bitter, it would not be easy to accept. 

Mary took the tea tray and manoeuvred back to the table. To her delight, Shannon seemed to have taken her advice. She was turned around in her chair, talking to a boy one table over. The boy’s arms were tanned, his dark hair streaked lighter from sun. His own chair balanced perilously on its back two legs. He was not alone at his table, but his companions — another boy, and a lovely woman with deep-red curls floating about her shoulders — didn’t seem to mind. 

That was the mark of a flirt, Mary thought from experience. When one’s mother and brother did not take notice of one’s chatting up a girl, it must be a regular habit. Her own father and Andrew could have substituted well for this boy’s family. But it _was_ a holiday. Shannon was not about to marry the first boy she spoke to.

Mary set down the tray, a smile playing at her lips. It had been a good idea to stick to her cutoffs. They made her a far better wingwoman. 

“Are you going to introduce me?” she asked Shannon, and the boy looked up at the sound of her voice.

Mary’s mouth fell open. 

Shannon didn’t seem to notice. “Of course!” Her cheeks were flushed a pretty pink. “Mare, this is Chris. Chris, this is my cousin Mary—” She broke off, frowning. “Is something wrong?”

Mary did not answer at first, pouring out the tea into their cups and pushing one towards her cousin. _Of course,_ she thought viciously, _of course, it’s just my bloody luck, isn’t it?_ She began to stir her teacup with force. Shannon winced at the noisy clinking.

“Chris and I go to school together.” Mary met his gaze finally. She hadn’t recognised him from behind; the summer sun really made quite a difference to his hair. “At St. Margaret’s,” she added, stressing the name.

Understanding dawned on his face, and his trademark boyish grin turned more sincere. “Right, yeah. Mac, you know my brother David, he’s in fifth year— Well, about to be sixth—”

Mary did not, in fact, know David Townes, but perhaps she would recognise him in uniform, wearing a house tie. He blinked at her as if her head was on the wrong way, but lifted his hand in a hesitant wave. 

“Dave, meet Shannon, and you know Mary— And this is my mum, Galina.” He broke off, turning back to face the redheaded woman, and said something to her in — was that Russian? “Don’t call her Mrs. Townes if you know what’s good for you.” His mother smiled approvingly.

Shannon’s response was prompt, her smile warm. “It’s lovely to meet you, Galina.”

“Yes, what are the odds,” said Mary. “I didn’t know you were Scottish.” The words came out like an accusation.

“No, we are not,” Galina Townes said. She spoke with a slight Russian accent, and her voice was low and melodic. She seemed so entirely unlike Chris that Mary found herself glancing between the pair of them, trying to pick out similarities. “We are here for the exhibition—”

David jumped in with a string of Russian, sounding slightly panicked. Galina’s eyes went wide, suddenly at a loss for words. Mary realised, a moment too late, that though the boys had picked up on her hint, their mother had not. Evidently, though, David had explained — and the word _Quidditch,_ which would surely have followed, stayed unspoken.

“—exhibition of, what do you call it, Scottish dancing?” Galina snapped her fingers. “Jig, that’s what it is. My sons love the jig.”

The boys wore matching expressions of dismay; Mary stifled a laugh. 

“The local pub is hosting a social dance,” Shannon said. “We should all go! Mary’s got fabulous footwork, she’d school us all.”

Chris’s brows shot up. He seemed more intrigued than put-off by the jig suggestion now. “Does she?”

Mary’s smile faded at once. But there was no way to signal to Shannon that she didn’t want to spend time with Chris Townes — at least, not without tipping off his mother, and Mary didn’t want to be rude. She settled for, “Maybe, yeah.”

At least Chris’s little brother looked as reluctant as she felt. 

Mary sipped at her tea while Shannon chattered away with Chris. It seemed less and less likely that both she and her cousin would leave Skye perfectly satisfied with their holiday.

The Ministry shutdown had lasted two days, in the end. Germaine had felt like a trespasser, moving through Abigail’s flat in her sister’s absence. She’d fed the cat, tended to the vegetable garden, and — for the first time tuning into a non-Quidditch show of her own accord — listened to the news on the WWN all day. 

As it turned out, Abigail beat the radio. It was late on the second day when Germaine heard the garden gate squeal; she’d rushed to the front door to assure herself the wards had not collapsed and she wasn’t about to be robbed.

“Run me a bath,” Abigail said grimly, dropping her briefcase on a sofa and moving into the kitchen. 

So Germaine had withheld her questions and hurried to the loo. For the rest of the evening she pampered her sister like never before, making her tea and cooking an approximation of dinner that Abigail ate with relish.

“They threw out the snacks in my office,” said Abigail. “And fed us the blandest porridge ever invented — I reckon someone made it at their desk and then Transfigured more of it.”

“Did they find out what happened?” asked Germaine timidly. “The objects, I mean, did they find all of them?”

Abigail grimaced. “They reckon so. They were ordinary bits and bobs, you know, just the sort you’d expect to find at Dervish and Banges.”

“So they _were_ the Hogsmeade objects!”

“Don’t tell a soul,” Abigail warned, her gaze turning stern. “They haven’t made it public information yet.”

“But...they’ve sent you home.” Germaine was still confused. “So they must have solved the case, right? Figured out who’d brought the objects to the Ministry?”

“Confidentially...they have their suspicions. But, well… That’s something I needed to speak with you about. They want to talk to you.”

She startled, her mouth going dry. “Me? Whatever for?” But Germaine knew she shouldn’t have been surprised at all. She had been in the building just before. Sirius had pointed out she’d been lucky to leave before the lockdown was instituted. It was a miracle, really, that Abigail hadn’t been in trouble for letting her go. 

“Routine questions,” Abigail said. “You needn’t worry — they’re not about to arrest you.”

“Well, I’m not worried about that. They have nothing to arrest me for.”

Abigail nodded. “Good. You just tell them that, then.”

It had seemed very simple in that moment, sitting in the annex flat’s kitchen opposite her sister. But standing there in the Ministry’s atrium again, Germaine’s nervousness had taken ahold of her. Abigail was with her, and her badge said _visitor_ once more, but the security witch eyed her with a good deal more suspicion as she examined her wand. 

They had come far before the Ministry office’s nine o’clock opening time, as Germaine’s interrogation was at eight-thirty. Well, not _interrogation,_ as she worked to remind herself. That was putting it very ominously. She had nothing to hide.

“Are you certain you don’t know who’ll speak to me?” Germaine murmured as the sisters entered the lift.

“I told you, they’re operating very carefully,” Abigail said, a trace of impatience in her voice. “Normally I know which Aurors are on what case, but this is all top-secret… Good morning, Mr. Forsythe.”

Forsythe, a tall, broad-shouldered man, gave Abigail a nod. “Magical Maintenance is in a mood again. Rain on Level Two.”

Abigail snorted. “None of _us_ liked being shut up in here overnight either.”

He stepped out on Level Six, leaving the sisters alone in the lift save for two hovering memos. Germaine tapped her foot nervously.

“I know you’re frightened,” said Abigail in an undertone, “but there’s no need. You’re going to be fine. It’s a very routine questioning — believe me, they’ve probably got a dozen other people coming in after you.”

She was halfway through nodding when the lift lurched to a halt. “What on—”

Then, just as suddenly, they were moving again — but much, much faster. 

“What’s happening?” Germaine said, grabbing for Abigail.

“Just relax!” Abigail squeezed her hand. “It must be the Minister’s office, they’ve got a special call button for the lifts. Bypasses other floors outside of regular work hours, so that lot can get around easily.”

The lift thudded to a stop again. “Level One,” it announced, “Minister for Magic and Support Staff.”

Just what she needed. To see the Minister for Magic himself on the day she would be questioned by Aurors. Germaine braced herself for Minchum’s square-jawed, sharp-nosed face, familiar to her from the _Prophet._ But the man who stepped into the lift was not the Minister.

He was of average height, which meant he was a head taller than both the King sisters, but he carried himself like a much larger man: spine erect, chin tipped up, his heavy-lidded eyes adding to his overall imperiousness. His hair was a snowy white, tied back in a queue like someone from a Hogwarts portrait.

“Atrium, please,” he said, his voice the rasp of a chronic smoker.

It was not immediately clear to whom he was speaking. Germaine jumped to life before Abigail, pushing the button for Level Eight just as the lift whirred back to life.

She snuck a glance at her sister, who was side-eyeing the man with an unreadable expression. Abigail had greeted just about everyone they’d run into in the building, but she seemed to have no words for this wizard. And yet Germaine felt sure that her sister recognised him.

They arrived at Level Two. Abigail nodded at the man on their way out, and said, “Good day, Mr. Malfoy.” He only humphed in response.

“Was that Abraxas Malfoy?” Germaine whispered when they were a safe distance away. She knew _of_ the Malfoys, but could not recall what role the man played at the Ministry — only that Doe had complained about him once, but that descriptor could apply to many witches and wizards.

Abigail gave her a terse nod. “I wonder what he was doing on Level One… He hasn’t held a formal position since Wilhelmina Tuft was Minister.”

“You could ask Crouch,” said Germaine.

“Maybe I will.”

Instead of the hallway that led to Crouch’s offices, Abigail directed Germaine to a desk in the corner of the Aurors’ bullpen. 

“Wait there,” she instructed. “They’ve been having a tussle about whether or not the questioning should be in the Wizengamot wing or ours, so I don’t know what they’ve decided. I expect someone will come to fetch you.”

“You _expect?”_ Germaine gave her a pleading look. “You could wait with me.”

“We’re—” Abigail checked her watch. “Fifteen minutes early. Just stay there, and if no one comes for you in five minutes knock on my office. Crouch has an eight-thirty too. Really, _don’t_ worry, Germaine.”

Easier said than done, but Germaine accepted that she wasn’t going to win this argument. The Aurors who were already at their desks paid her no heed. So she made her way to the table in question.

A piece of parchment and a quill sat on its surface. _Sign in for DMLE questioning,_ it read. Germaine’s name was printed on the schedule already. She picked up the quill and signed in the space provided, scanning the list aimlessly. None of the names were familiar. Perhaps they were all random Ministry visitors from that week.

Scarcely a minute later, words appeared beside her name. _Wizengamot Admin. Chamber 3. Please wait to be escorted._

Well, she certainly would — she had no clue where the Wizengamot chambers were. After a moment’s hesitation, Germaine approached one of the nearby Aurors.

“Excuse me, do you mind if I borrowed one of your memos?” she said. “I’ve got to leave a note for my sister — she’s Abigail, Cro— er, Mr. Crouch’s secretary. I want to let her know I’m going to be in the Wizengamot wing—”

The Auror, a stocky, fair-haired man, studied her carefully. “Guests aren’t supposed to be at the Ministry today. Miss King would know that.”

Germaine went into a wordless panic. Had Abigail made some sort of mistake? Had _she_ just landed Abigail in hot water?

“It’s — I’m being questioned, I’m supposed to be here, I’ve been at the security witch and everything—”

“Germaine King?”

Germaine had never been so relieved to hear the sound of her own name. She turned to see a wiry young man in robes that bore the Wizengamot crest. 

“That’s me, yeah.” She wondered if this was one of the interns Abigail so scorned; he didn’t look much older than her. It was a pity Germaine didn’t have the memory for names and faces at all, or she might have been able to recognise him from Hogwarts.

“Aaron Shore, Wizengamot admin. They’re waiting for you in Chamber Three. If you’ll follow me—”

She did, with a backwards glance at the Auror who’d questioned her as if to say _see?_

The Wizengamot rooms were on the opposite end of the Ministry from the Aurors’, so Germaine and Aaron Shore went back the way she’d come from the lifts and further still. Where the Aurors’ space was open and full of activity, this looked very much administrative, with empty desks lining its empty offices. At last they arrived at a corridor full of what seemed to be conference rooms. Shore gestured for her to enter Chamber Three.

It was a small room, sparsely furnished, but to Germaine’s relief it looked nothing like an interrogation room. Two men stood at one end, talking in low voices; at her entrance, they both turned to face her. 

To her surprise, the men were not strangers. One was Gareth Greer, one of the Aurors in training who had been stationed at Hogwarts the past year. And the other was Alastor Moody, who’d come to see the Aurors off at the school. Germaine could hardly forget a man with a wooden leg.

“Germaine King?” said Moody. “Sit down, sit down. You’re early.”

Was that a bad thing? “My sister wanted me to be on time,” Germaine said. She winced inwardly; she sounded both like a child, and like someone trying to subtly remind the Aurors that her sister worked with them.

“Yes, King’s very punctual. Predictably so.” Moody crossed his arms over his chest. “She ought to be more careful.”

Germaine did not know how to respond to that, so she kept silent. 

“Any word?” Moody said to Greer cryptically. 

“I don’t think so…”

Moody muttered a curse under his breath and stomped for the door. “Shore!” she heard him bark before the door slammed shut.

“Are...we waiting for someone?” Germaine said.

Greer startled, looking at her like he’d forgotten she was there. “We’re supposed to have a Wizengamot representative too. Interdepartmental investigation, you see.”

“But...they’re late?”

“They don’t usually start this early. _We’re_ used to it.”

Germaine folded her hands in her lap. Perfect. Now she’d come in the middle of some interdepartmental feud too. Moody came back moments later, alone and looking stormier than ever.

“So much for starting ahead of schedule,” Gareth Greer said, to no one in particular.

It was a quarter to nine by the time the door to Chamber Three opened again. Germaine straightened in her seat, straining to see who it was.

A dark-haired girl ducked into the room. “Madam Bones is on her way. Oh — Germaine?”

 _“Emmeline?”_

This was too much to process at once. Madam Bones was coming? Emmeline was here? Germaine was certain she was dreaming. She could pinch herself and wake up, and it would be morning again. She would go to the Ministry and be questioned, on time… 

“Who are you?” Moody said, squinting at Emmeline with undisguised suspicion. It was a bit much, Germaine thought, given that she wore a badge with her name on it.

But Emmeline was unfrazzled. She extended a hand. “Emmeline Vance, sir. Intern with the Minister’s support staff.”

Moody did not shake it, though Gareth Greer did.

“Wesley Vance’s daughter, is it?” said Moody.

“Yes, sir.”

Gareth Greer looked as though he wanted to shake Emmeline’s hand again.

“Well, if you’re familiar with King over here I can’t have you sit in.”

Emmeline darted a glance at Germaine before looking back at Moody. “I take notes for Madam Bones, sir.”

Germaine watched this exchange with a rising swell of nerves. She wasn’t sure if having Emmeline in the room would make things more or less awkward. No, _definitely_ more awkward. 

Moody made a sound of annoyance. “She can take her own no—”

The door swung open again, and in walked Lucille Bones. Germaine had been expecting an older version of Amelia, and so she was surprised to see a round-faced, curvy witch, her hair a majestic steel-grey. She did not seem as severe, at first glance, but there was still something commanding about her. 

She strode to a chair and sat down, casting a puzzled look at the Aurors, as if _she_ had been waiting on them. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

Germaine pressed her sweaty palms to her thighs. 

* * *

_Interlude: H.B., Part One_

“Eat a little slower, dear,” Euphemia said. “You’ll choke.”

“’M fine,” James mumbled through a mouthful of fruit. “Just running late.”

Fleamont glanced at the clock above the dining table. “Late for what?”

“Sirius’s job.” 

Another mouthful of food. Fleamont and Euphemia exchanged glances.

“Are you doing Sirius’s job on his behalf?” said Fleamont at last.

James snorted. “What do you both take me for?”

“It would be nicer not to say,” said Euphemia with a smile. 

“Thanks, Mum.”

“Regardless, don’t inhale your food. Or you won’t get to see Sirius.”

James rolled his eyes, but slowed his eating. He had not expected his summer to get so busy, but he found he was quite enjoying it. He spent most of his days with Sirius in Diagon Alley, hunting down his assassin target of the week, or wandering around the Muggle museum while his friend worked. And, well, sometimes he helped. 

“We hardly see you at all these days,” Fleamont said. “Won’t you have your friends over for a meal or something?”

“Sure, just say when. Peter misses your cooking anyway, Mum.”

Euphemia gave a fond sigh. “We’ll up his spice tolerance yet.”

Expectant silence filled the dining room again. 

James set down his fork and studied his parents. “Right, I can tell we’re skirting around something, so why don’t you go ahead and say it?”

“Well,” said Fleamont tactfully, “I think it might be a good idea if you—”

“—introduce us to your girlfriend,” Euphemia finished.

“You’re joking.” James looked from one to the other. They did not seem to be joking. 

He had mentioned Marissa to them, of course, and they had asked all the requisite questions. Then they’d seemed satisfied. And he’d moved on. That was that.

Except, that was not that.

Euphemia’s gaze turned evaluating. “Why? Are you ashamed of her?”

He laughed. “Of course not!”

“Good. You said she was Head Girl, and a Ravenclaw? And at the _Prophet?_ She seems like a smart, sensible girl. Why shouldn’t we meet her?”

James realised he’d walked right into the trap. “Well — it’s not that you shouldn’t,” he began. 

“What is it, then?” said Fleamont encouragingly. 

“I’d have to ask her first.”

“Obviously,” Euphemia said. 

“And I don’t know if she’d say yes.” 

As soon as he’d said it, James knew it to be a lie. Why _wouldn’t_ Marissa say yes? They had not seen each other — less than he liked, if he were being honest. But such were the perils of a new job. She wrote him semi-frequently, and described it all to him: the rush of production night, interviewing oddjobs on the road, how wonderful it was seeing her name in print.

Euphemia shrugged. “If she doesn’t, she doesn’t. You’re serious about her, aren’t you?”

“Well, I—”

“James Henry Bartholomew.” Euphemia leaned forward. “Did I raise you to be afraid of commitment?”

He held up his hands in surrender. “You’re both coming on a bit strong, don’t you think?” 

“Call us old-fashioned, but we’d like to know who our son spends so much time with,” Fleamont said.

James sat back with a sigh. “Don’t be weird,” he warned. “I’ll speak to her.”

* * *

When Germaine left the room she felt quite certain several hours had passed. But it was hardly half past nine. Accounting for Madam Bones’s lateness, they had not taken very long. She’d catalogued just about every item in Abigail’s office, and answered “I don’t know” to several questions about people around the DMLE. Moody probably thought she was stupid. But at least he wouldn’t think she was guilty.

She started back down the corridor the way she’d come, only to realise she would certainly lose her way in the maze-like Wizengamot corridors. So she stopped, turning around to look for Aaron Shore.

Instead she found Madam Bones and Emmeline leaving Chamber Three.

“Are you lost?” Madam Bones inquired, her voice much kinder than it had been during the questioning.

“A little,” Germaine admitted, not meeting Emmeline’s eye. “Do you happen to know the way to Mr. Crouch’s office?”

“We can take you as far as the lifts,” said Emmeline. “Right, Madam Bones?”

“Lucille, please,” Madam Bones corrected, smiling. “You’re welcome to walk with us, Miss King.”

Of course. Emmeline was working under her friend’s mother — Germaine wondered if Amelia was the reason she had the position in the first place. But last she’d seen, the two hadn’t been on the greatest of terms…

Germaine murmured her thanks and fell in beside Emmeline. She imagined they looked like attendants to a medieval lady. 

“I didn’t know you were in the building, on that day,” Emmeline said. 

She had a hopeful look in her eyes, same as she’d had that day weeks ago when she had tried to apologise. Germaine was no more certain whether or not to forgive her, even though time had dulled her hurt into something more closely resembling embarrassment.

“Yeah, I was with my sister,” said Germaine. She added, “Were you locked in, then?”

Emmeline winced. “I was. It wasn’t...the best experience. But I suppose it was all the better for safety’s sake. They wouldn’t have been able to find a suspect so quickly otherwise.”

Germaine’s eyebrows rose. “A suspect? So...you know who it is?”

Emmeline glanced at Madam Bones’s back. “I can’t say.” But she gave a small nod.

“Well — why are they still questioning people?”

“To make sure they haven’t missed any of the objects, I suppose.” Emmeline shuddered. “I heard they were boxes of quills.”

Germaine went cold. “Quills?” She remembered very vividly the broken quill she had found amidst Abigail’s papers. Had she mentioned it during the questioning? She couldn’t remember.

She had to find her sister at once. 

Emmeline went on speaking. “That’s what I heard, anyway…”

But Germaine had effectively tuned her out. By the time they reached the lifts, a chilly silence had fallen again. She could apologise later for ignoring Emmeline, Germaine decided. She had more important things to do.

Bidding the pair farewell, she wound her way through the Auror Office and out the other end, coming to a stop in front of Crouch’s office. No one answered her knocks. Desperate, Germaine tried the door — and to her surprise, it opened. 

Abigail was not inside. Germaine went to her desk and pulled out its drawers frantically, but the box of quills had vanished. It was not in the bin. It was not in any of the other drawers. 

A huge pile of things were dumped at the far end of the office, by the fireplace. Germaine rummaged through them — old notepaper, custard cream wrappers, still no quills.

“Germaine, what on earth are you doing?” 

Abigail was at the door, her mouth wide open. 

“The quills,” Germaine said, “there were quills, and Emmeline Vance said they might be cursed, so—”

“That is Mr. Crouch’s _rubbish,”_ Abigail said, half-laughing incredulously. “They emptied out my drawers days ago.”

Oh. Germaine felt very foolish indeed. “Well...did they think the quills were cursed?”

“I’ve no idea. But who’s ever heard of quills from Dervish and Banges? Honestly, Germaine, the ideas you get…” 

“I didn’t want you to get hexed, thank you very much!”

“I appreciate your concern, really.” Abigail held a hand out to her, and Germaine allowed herself to be pulled up. “But we’ve got some of the best security in the building. They don’t think anything made it to Level Two.”

“That didn’t stop Lucille Bones from coming to my questioning,” Germaine grumbled.

Abigail whistled. “Did she? _Merlin._ Did you ask her why the Minister was meeting with Abraxas Malfoy?”

“Oh, yes, of course I did. In between her asking me if I’d had any symptoms of curses that day, you know.”

“Very funny.”

“Honestly, Abigail, the ideas you get.” 

* * *

_ii. Second Hand News_

The beach was a little less fun when Mary could see Shannon and Chris out of the corner of her eye. 

Not that they were _doing_ anything. They were talking. Just...talking. It would have been sweet, had it been any other pair of people. But Mary did not trust Chris Townes to come five feet near her cousin. Surely he had an underhanded motive. Something gross about chatting up nice girls, probably. Yes, that was it. 

So she was sitting by herself, reading a magazine. She turned a page so forcefully she nearly ripped it in half. 

Shannon had asked Mary about Chris the moment they were alone. “You… _know_ him, don’t you?”

That was a tactful way to put it. “Yes,” Mary said, “we’ve, well, we’ve snogged, but it’s never—”

Shannon was already nodding solemnly. “You should’ve said before. We don’t need to see them again.”

“Oh, please, don’t be ridiculous. He’s not my favourite person, but it’s only ever been casual between us. I do _not_ fancy Chris Townes. He’s just...a massive flirt, Shannon. I don’t want you getting hurt.” It was all true enough.

“If you’re certain…”

“Of course I’m certain!”

“It’s only going to be a week,” Shannon said. “I don’t think anything can happen in a week. He can’t _hurt_ me, I mean.”

Mary did not have the heart to offer her cynical beliefs. Not when her cousin looked so _happy_ around Chris. Besides, this was a convenient circumstance for her. She no longer had to worry about accompanying Shanny when she wanted to relax. Her cousin had someone else to spend time with. 

Which was why Mary was relaxing. Right now. She was also scowling so hard that her forehead hurt. 

She glanced in the direction of Shannon and Chris. He said something to make her laugh, and she threw her head back in delight. Chris looked imminently satisfied. Some way behind them, David Townes was frowning at a book.

Mary realised she probably looked rather like David. 

Grimacing, she turned back to her magazine. Only moments later, Shannon dropped onto the sand next to her.

“Hi,” she said, breathless and flushed, perhaps from the mere presence of Chris bloody Townes. (Fine, that was uncharitable.) “Are you positive you don’t want to join us for the boat ride?”

“I’ll be ill all night if I do,” said Mary. “Really, go ahead.”

“Oh, Mare, I don’t want to ditch you for a _boy—”_

“It’s a holiday, Shanny. You ought to enjoy it.” 

Only, the more Mary said it, the less sincere it sounded. To her, at least. 

“If you’re certain,” said Shannon. “I ought to change. Do you want anything from the cottage?”

“A magazine,” Mary said.

“Which one?”

“Any of them.” She realised how uninterested she sounded, and smiled widely. And then Shannon was gone once more.

It was all Chris’s fault. She’d wanted a break from Hogwarts, and its gossip, but she’d run right back into it. She dropped her head back into the sand. 

Perhaps it was useless trying to escape it. After all, she’d made the choices that had led her to this position. No, the worst part of it all was that it was _not_ Chris’s fault. It was Mary’s. It always had been.

“Hello, Mac.”

Mary opened her eyes. Chris was standing above her, shielding his eyes from the sun. She pointedly let her magazine fall over her chest. He rolled his eyes.

“Relax. How much of a prick do you think I am?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to hear the answers to.”

“Your cousin’s nice,” Chris said, “and I like her. I’m sorry if that’s weird for you, but isn’t that how things have always been with us? I always thought if you wanted something more, you’d say so.”

Mary flinched, thinking of Doc. “People keep telling me that.”

“Yeah, well, there’s some truth to it. You’re not that sort.”

She avoided his gaze. All those months ago she had told Doe she wanted something different — a boy who asked _her_ things, a boy who wanted to get to know _her._ A boy who did not treat her like she was a separate species from any other girl he’d dated, just because she was blunt and spoke her mind. And he still eluded her. If he existed at all, Mary thought sourly. 

“What sort?” Mary said.

Chris shrugged. “The sort who lets blokes call all the shots.”

She sighed. “Okay. So...what did you want? My blessing? Just the fact that I haven’t hexed you into tomorrow and told Shanny to stay away from you means you have it.”

Chris’s sigh mirrored hers. “Not everything’s about you. No offence. I wanted to ask if you’d keep my brother company while Shannon and I are on the boat.”

“David?”

“No, one of my six other brothers.” Chris rolled his eyes. “Yeah, David. He’s quiet at school, and I thought if there’s anyone who would change that, well…”

“It’d be me, the social pariah?” Mary said, incredulous.

To her surprise, Chris laughed. “A social pariah? _You?_ I’ll believe it when I see it.”

She glanced at David, who was still frowning at his book. His spectacles kept sliding down his nose, so he had to push them back up with increasing frequency. She could believe he was quiet. In fact, it was probably not easy being Chris Townes’s brother at Hogwarts.

“Well, all right. He seems nice enough.”

“Don’t even think about getting your claws into him,” Chris said.

Mary glared at him. “That’d better have been a joke.”

He walked away laughing.

James left the Museum of Muggle Curiosities around lunchtime. He wound through the buildings towards the east end of Diagon Alley, where the _Prophet_ offices sat; the clump of reporters smoking outside told him he had judged correctly. Sure enough, Marissa came out with an unfamiliar witch and wizard after he’d been waiting for just minutes.

James straightened and approached them, waving. Marissa peeled away from them and met him halfway. “James! This is a surprise.”

“I was around.” He jerked a thumb in the vague direction of Carkitt Market, then felt stupid for having done it. Coming face to face with Marissa’s real adult life made him suddenly unsure. 

“You should’ve said so.” Her expression turned apologetic. “I’m meeting a source for lunch.”

“A source. Sounds important.” 

Marissa nodded, beaming. “It’s the first time I’m doing it. It’s actually Trevor’s source—” She pointed out the wizard she’d left the building with. “That’s him, Trevor Kim. My supervisor.”

“Congratulations,” James said lamely. 

It hit him like a bolt of lightning — she had left him behind. Not the way he had left Mélanie behind, after last summer, without so much as a letter. Marissa had not ditched all communication with him.

But she no longer needed him. He was certain of that. He was quite certain she knew too, and perhaps that was why she had not made a proper effort to see him earlier. If she had, they would both have had this realisation sooner.

But would either of them say it? 

“So, my parents have been asking about you,” he began, to test the waters.

Marissa’s mouth curved into a ghost of the mischievous smile he’d liked so much. “What did they say?”

“They wanted to have you round for dinner.”

 _Say no,_ James thought, _say no._

But her smile held. “Oh. Well, that’s nice of them. But I’m on weekend production for the rest of the month, so it might be a while.”

“August,” James said, “that’s all right. The first Friday?” 

“I’ll write that down,” Marissa said. “I should be off, if that’s all—”

He could feel nothing but disappointed. Of all people he’d expected Marissa would be straightforward with him, but it seemed she was content to go along with their relationship even when they barely saw each other. 

Or, no, maybe he was looking at it the wrong way. Maybe she did not want to repeat the mistake she’d made before with Doc, by allowing something she wanted to peter out. 

Right. And Sirius would be marrying Roxanne the receptionist next week. 

James stood there watching the _Prophet_ office for a long minute after she’d left. Hadn’t he given it a fair go? It made no sense to him. It _stung._

His sunny mood had gone completely bad. Sirius would not be on his break for some time, James knew, and he was not in the mood for his best mate’s wisdom. Neither did he want to risk the Cauldron, since Marissa and her colleagues had gone off in that direction. 

But he could try the awful, decrepit bar on Horizont Alley the Marauders had been to before. The one they’d all been to over Easter.

James was aware day-drinking wasn’t the best of choices. It was not mature, it was not sensible, it was all around ill-advised. But even if things were no clearer after some Firewhisky, he’d have had some Firewhisky.

He’d made it halfway down the side street by the time he noticed the figure outside of the Pennythistle. Her red hair was in a plait down her back, one hand balanced on her hip as the other toyed with the frayed ends of her denim skirt. James carefully catalogued his own reaction to Lily Evans: he noticed her, he was surprised, he was pleased to see her. As one would a friend. 

He lengthened his stride, deciding it was safe to approach her. “About to imbibe, Evans?”

Lily jumped, pulling out her wand. “Stay back!”

James held up his hands. “Relax. I don’t have you for tag.”

“Oh…” She stowed her wand away and relaxed a little. “You don’t seem worried about me having you.”

He nodded. “I know you don’t. I’ve got your end of the chain figured out.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling. “Bully for you. And, no, I wasn’t going to drink at lunchtime. I was only looking to see if they’re hiring.”

James arched an eyebrow at her. “You want to work at the worst bar I’ve ever been to?”

“Anything’s better than catsitting for Mrs. Roland.” She grimaced. “Not that anything’s wrong with her or Nigel. But it’s the most boring thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

“Who’s Nigel?”

“The cat.”

“Yeah, I reckon you need a drink.”

Lily laughed, shaking her head. “I reckon you were on your way here to have one, and you’re looking for an excuse. Come on.” 

He followed her inside the grimy pub. To his absolute shock, it was not empty — a grizzled old witch sat at the bartop, a mug of something fizzy and green in front of her. James resisted the urge to pull a face.

“And you’re sure you want to work here?” he murmured. 

“I’m not. But most other places in wizarding London have already hired someone…” Still, Lily sounded less certain by the minute. 

The barkeep was nowhere to be found. They hovered by the old witch for several minutes before James started to tap his foot with impatience.

“What d’you want?” the woman croaked.

James blinked at her. “Er, the barkeep?”

“Tha’s me, young man. So? What d’you want?”

He looked from the drink to the woman. “Are you supposed to be drinking on the job?”

Lily stifled a laugh. _“James,_ honestly. Sorry, ma’am, my friend’s got no manners at all. We’ll have two Firewhiskys.”

The witch squinted at them. “You of age?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said James solemnly. “I’m much older than I look.”

“He’s forty-four,” Lily said, equally serious.

He shot her an affronted look; mirth sparkled in her gaze. 

“Forty-four, with the chin of a teenage lad,” the witch said.

His hand went to his jaw, which was indeed quite smooth. “I, er—”

“Ye’ve got no beard,” the witch said helpfully, as if any clarification was necessary.

“Yes,” James said, “I got that part.”

The witch grinned. “I meant for ye to get it.”

Lily was grinning too. “Shall we seat ourselves?”

“I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” James said as they sat down. “Now she thinks we’re lying about our ages.”

“And you’d never, ever lie, would you?”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t go that far, but—”

“Our first trip to Hogsmeade, we were thirteen. You and Sirius tried to get Rosmerta to serve you scotch.”

Sheepish, James laughed along with her. “I don’t remember that happening.”

“Convenient.”

“I’m surprised you do.”

Lily looked taken aback for just a moment. “Don’t get too excited. I don’t catalogue all your greatest hits.” 

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I don’t think you do.” If anything she had a catalogue of his _worst_ moments. 

She cleared her throat. “So, what’s driven you to noon drinking?”

James opened his mouth and closed it again. Then he said, “I thought I was going to get broken up with today.”

Lily’s mouth fell open a little. “Oh!” she squeaked. “Oh, I’m sorry — you _thought?”_

He was beginning to regret mentioning it at all. Today was not at all his day, James thought ruefully. Better to have stayed in the museum and nagged Sirius instead. But it would be impossible to give no explanation now.

“It didn’t happen,” he said. “But — I dunno, I thought it would.”

“I liked Marissa,” Lily said dejectedly.

That amused him. “There’s no reason for you to stop liking her.”

“There is if she’s treating you badly.”

The witch levitated their Firewhiskys to their table, and they paused their conversation to thank her. 

“Yes,” Lily continued, “there is if she’s treating you badly.”

“As flattering as that is, she isn’t.” At least, he didn’t think that was what this was. 

She gave a disbelieving snort. “Why did you think she was going to dump you, then?”

“Just a feeling,” James said evasively. Lily did not look away; her brows rose. “Fine, I’ll tell you. We haven’t seen much of each other. It doesn’t seem as though she’s very interested.” The more he said it, the more matter-of-fact he grew. It was surprisingly easy to say. James had expected to be far more embarrassed — or _something._

“Life changes when you finish school,” Lily said slowly. She took a sip of her drink, and James followed suit. “Do you think it will? For us?”

It took him a moment to track this swerve in topic. “What? Oh… Yeah, I reckon so. But change doesn’t need to be bad, does it?” He certainly didn’t think so. Change made life interesting; more often than not he was trying to force it, rather than the other way around.

“It doesn’t, no…” She traced a line of condensation down her glass. “I think my sister wants me to be a Muggle.”

James looked up sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means what it says on the tin. We used to be _this_ close—” She crossed her fingers to demonstrate. “But it was hard to stay that way when I went off to Hogwarts. It’s a whole world she can’t be part of.”

He frowned, trying to read between the lines. “But she can be happy for you.”

“It’s not that she isn’t.” She shook her head. “It’s— You can’t understand it. You’ve always known about magic, you’ve always _been_ magic. It’s cruel, really, knowing when you can’t have it.”

James thought of the Muggle museum, and of the careful way Benjy and Sirius were chipping away at the motorcycle repairs. 

“I can’t properly understand, no,” he allowed, “but I think I get the idea. Still, whatever your sister felt when she was younger, you’re adults now. And she can’t take you away from a world you belong in.”

She met his gaze, a line of worry appearing between her brows. “I don’t have to belong here,” she said quietly. “I could very easily live like her...a normal, Muggle life.”

James scoffed.

“No, I could!”

“Bullshit,” he said, more forcefully than he’d intended to. But it was imperative that she understood… “You could be catsitting Nigel right now, but you’re _here._ You’re here because magic calls to you, and I don’t think it would be easy at all for you to give any of it up. No matter what your sister might think— In fact, you said it yourself. Once you know, it’s too late. You’re in too deep.”

She smiled a sad sort of smile, one that did not confirm for James that he’d made his point. 

“I’m serious.”

Lily laughed. “I didn’t expect you to feel so strongly about it.”

“Well, everyone should get to have magic,” he said. “No, don’t look at me like that. You don’t have to be able to hold a wand to benefit from it. There’s still potions, and magical plants — that stuff could save lives. If it were up to me, the whole world would know about it.”

James was a little breathless by the time he’d finished this speech, but no less convinced of its truth. 

“It wouldn’t be that simple,” she warned. “There’d be all sorts of conflict about who got to have it.”

He shrugged. “That’s no different than now, is it?”

“James Potter, you are an idealist,” Lily said, laughing. “Who’d have thought?”

He smiled; it was hard not to, when she seemed so delighted. “Sharing is caring, and all that. Magic’s the best thing I’ve got.” 

_“That’s_ certainly not true.”

“Isn’t it?” 

She tilted her head to one side, considering. James sipped his Firewhisky, holding the glass up to his eye and squinting at her through the amber liquid. Her green eyes were all the more brilliant through it.

“It’s not,” Lily said, holding up a finger, “but I’ll have to get back to you on what is. I’m afraid too many compliments on one day will go to your head.”

“I think that ship’s sailed. You’re the one who tells me so.”

Lily waved a dismissive hand. “There’s hope for you yet.”

He did not doubt it — he never had. No, James was always in full confidence of his future. It would be exciting, it would be big, it would be a challenge. He didn’t need reminding. And yet, her reminder helped. 

This thing with Marissa would sort itself out. Change was, after all, inevitable. 

“Finish your drink,” James said, “there’s something you should see.”

“Last one to finish pays?” Lily suggested.

“Sure— Oi!”

She had started drinking before he could finish agreeing. 

Once Shannon and Chris had left, Mary spent fifteen minutes reading the same page of her magazine. It was useless, she decided. She might as well make something of her day. 

David Townes was _still_ reading. More likely than not Mary would be pestering him if she went to keep him company, as Chris had suggested. But it would only be one afternoon. And surely David would simply say no if he were so totally disgusted by the very possibility of interacting with her.

Mind made up, Mary leapt to her feet, shook the sand from her towel, and slung it over one shoulder. Then she marched straight for David.

He noticed her when she was several steps away, setting his book down and taking his spectacles off to squint at her. “Hello,” he said cautiously, as though she might bite if he startled her.

“You want to go into town?” Mary said, without preamble.

She expected him to protest, to say he was busy reading. But David marked his page and stood. “Fine. Where are we going?”

Mary smiled. “You’ll see.”

“Let me rephrase. Where are we going, like _this?”_ He gestured to her bikini, and his own swim trunks.

She frowned, considering. “A pub, but I don’t think they’ll mind.”

He was now looking at her like she was crazy. “Right…”

“Worst case scenario, they’ll boot us out.” She shrugged.

His eyebrows disappeared under his fringe. “And have you been booted out of a pub before?” 

“No,” Mary admitted. “And I don’t plan to, honest. I want to see what Portree’s Pride is like on the inside. If it really looks six hundred years old.”

David studied her for a moment, then sighed in what sounded like defeat. He stooped to pick up his own towel, and, in the process, tossed a balled-up cloth at her. 

“What’s this for?” Mary shook it out, and realised it was a T-shirt. It was a faded blue, and bore the Gobstones’ logo in white. 

“For you,” David said, as if it were obvious but he would rather have died than explain why. “You know, in case you want to put it on.”

She managed not to grin at his awkwardness. “Thanks. You don’t mind if I hang onto it, do you?”

At his acquiescence, Mary tucked her magazine under one arm so she could fold the shirt and toss it over her towel. Remembering Chris’s questionable taste in bands, she said, “At least it’s not the Hexettes. I could never wear a Hexettes top.”

“Neither could I,” said David, falling into step beside her.

As the sand underfoot turned to cobblestone, Mary learned that David Townes was a Hufflepuff, like his brother. Some people thought he should be in Ravenclaw. She did not say that Cecily Sprucklin was in Hufflepuff too, so the houses ought not to be taken too seriously. He was just a few months off seventeen, so he was one of the oldest students in his year.

“My birthday’s on Monday,” Mary said, “so I’m not seventeen yet either.”

“We’re going to a _pub,”_ he pointed out. 

“I noticed.”

“And neither of us is of age.”

“I realise.”

“We’re even more likely to get booted than I thought,” he said glumly.

David liked Quidditch, and was a Portree fan like his brother, but did not play. Nor did he have any desire to. What interested him was the numbers.

“It’s frustrating that Quidditch commentary is all about supposedly intangible qualities. It wasn’t _leadership_ that made Catriona McCormack unstoppable with the Quaffle, it was her speed — and her sharp turns.”

“You’ve lost me,” said Mary.

At last they came to the purple-painted door to Portree’s Pride. 

“Do you think the town was called Portree when the pub was first built?” Mary said, asking the question she’d first thought of when she’d spotted the sign.

“In the 1300s?” David shook his head. “Not a chance. The royal visit people reckon it was named after happened centuries later.”

Before she could reply — and express surprise that her mostly-rhetorical question _had_ an answer — someone else called, “Only by the Sassenachs’ reckoning.”

The witch who spoke stood at the bar, a healthy ten feet of tanned skin and wiry muscle. She wore an eye-patch. She was, without question, the coolest person Mary had ever laid eyes on.

“By the what?” David said in an undertone.

Mary grinned. When she next spoke, the Scottish lilt that always lay underneath her English was dialled up to eleven. “Sassenach. That means you, English boy, _not_ me.”

A wizard within earshot hooted his approval at that, and she recognised the toothless old man who had called out to her that first day in town.

David, meanwhile, had flushed red. “I’m half Russian.”

“You’re still not Scottish. Come on, let’s get a drink.”

The Firewhisky — or, more accurately, the speed at which it was consumed — made the walk to Carkitt Market decidedly slower than it otherwise would have been.

“We can Apparate,” James said, not for the first time, midway up Diagon Alley. 

“I don’t want to Splinch myself, thank you very much,” Lily replied.

 _“I_ wouldn’t. I never have,” he said with great pride. 

“Well, _I_ have, and I don’t want to repeat the experience.”

She was swerving slightly off-course; James pulled her away from the display stand full of pamphlets perched outside of TerrorTours. 

“This was your idea. Don’t blame me.” 

Even though she’d had a head start, he’d had still finished first — although, they had split the cost in the end. 

“I’ll walk it off,” Lily assured him.

“If you can _walk,”_ he said, amused, as they turned into Carkitt Market. 

“Where are we going, anyway?” 

He pointed at the museum. “In there. You know, both your worlds intersecting.”

Belatedly he wondered if the exhibits were wrongly labelled or something. Maybe Lily would walk in and laugh.

But she did not look like she was about to laugh. Her eyes were wide with wonder, her hands pressed to her heart like a character in a film. 

“There’s a _Muggle_ museum _here?”_ she said. “In Diagon Alley? _Wow,_ I never even knew—”

“Don’t get _too_ excited,” he said quickly. “It’s not really the greatest attraction wizarding London has to offer.”

“I _am_ excited.” Lily was through the doors without another word.

James followed. Mercifully Roxanne had elected to open the front windows wide that day, and sunlight streamed into the lobby. The receptionist remained characteristically dour, giving the two of them a glance of deep mistrust. 

“Have you brought a drunk person into the museum?” she asked, looking at James as if he’d brought a bull and not a slightly tipsy girl.

“She’s not drunk. Look, just charge us for entry.”

Lily beat him to the desk. “I’ll pay. How much is it?”

Roxanne gave her a once-over. “A Galleon each.”

“A _Galleon?_ That’s not what you charged me before,” said James, aghast.

The receptionist just shrugged. “Benjy made me give you the employee rate. I’m not going to _keep_ doing it. We’ve got to make money somehow.”

“A Galleon it is,” Lily declared. She fished out coins and slapped them on the table. “Thanks so much—” She leaned in to squint at Roxanne’s nametag, and the other witch leaned backwards. “Roxanne, thank you.”

“My pleasure,” said Roxanne, scowling.

James waved Lily into the museum proper before Roxanne could get any more digs in. it lit up as they entered, with spotlights coming to life above the glass-encased exhibits. 

“This is a microwave,” said Lily, bemused. “I’ve got one in my flat right now. And it’s here, in a museum.”

“To be fair,” said James, “it’s a fifteen-year-old microwave. I think it qualifies as history by now.”

She snorted. “Well, as nice as this is, none of these things are in action, are they?”

“What d’you mean?”

“A microwave is meant to be used. I mean, it’s not art, which exists to be looked at. It’s an appliance.”

“You’ve got a point,” said a voice from the curator’s office; Benjy Fenwick stepped through the exhibits to study them both. “Hello, James.” To Lily, he extended a hand. “Benjy Fenwick, I’m the summer caretaker.”

“Lily Evans. I’m, er, a visitor.”

“I can see that.” Benjy’s smile was warm. “One of your classmates?” 

“Yeah.” This came not from James but Sirius, who appeared behind Benjy. He looked at Lily with undisguised wariness. 

Too late James remembered that they did not quite get along at present — and the reason was _him,_ only he’d never properly hashed it out with Sirius. Because Lily had been angry with him right after he’d found out.

Oh, Merlin.

Lily’s easy excitement morphed into caution. “Black.”

“Evans,” came the reply. Sirius looked at James. “So, you brought her to see the museum.”

James shrugged, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. If this was how it had been for all their friends when he and Lily had been at loggerheads, he could sympathise at last. “I thought it’d be interesting.”

“It _is_ interesting,” Sirius said, and James knew he did not mean the museum.

“Don’t be like that,” James said under his breath.

“Like what?”

He sighed, and turned back to Benjy and Lily. 

“You’re Muggle-born, then?” Benjy was saying.

“And proud,” Lily said. “I reckon witches and wizards need to learn a lot more about Muggles. I mean, the Hogwarts Muggle Studies curriculum is laughable—”

“Hey,” Sirius said mildly, “that’s the best Hogwarts class there is.”

She ignored him. “—and it ought to be mandatory, if you ask me. Which is to say, I think the museum could be great.”

James heard the conditional, and braced himself. He could feel Sirius bristling. But Benjy merely smiled again.

“I agree,” he said. “And you seem to have loads of good ideas.” 

“Are you hiring?” said Lily hopefully.

Benjy’s face fell. “To be honest, we haven’t the money to hire someone else. And I wouldn’t ask you to work for free.”

She too deflated. “I don’t think _I_ could afford to do it.” She glanced at James, pulling a wry face. “I suppose I’ll have to keep looking.”

“If you want to consult once a week, or something like that,” Benjy said hurriedly, “I’d love to have you.”

Lily nodded. “I’ll come back once I’m settled, and we’ll see if it can be finagled.”

He clapped his hands together. “Excellent. If you’ll excuse me, I should go back to my letters — Sirius, you’re free to take your lunch, by the way.”

“Thanks,” said Sirius, not looking at the caretaker as he went. “So, what is this, a kiss-and-make-up situation?”

James groaned. “I wasn’t even thinking about—”

“Don’t bother, James. I’m not going to hang around where I’m not wanted.” Lily took a step backward.

“At least see the motorcycle before you go,” said James, which of course only deepened Sirius’s scowl. “What? It’s a museum exhibit.”

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Sirius. “Fine. C’mon, it’s in the back.”

With another wary glance at Sirius, Lily went after him, with James bringing up the rear. He was flying by the seat of his pants here, but the pieces were beginning to come together in his head. After all, so much of why Lily had made an effort to get along with him came down to house harmony. And he, James, had no desire to spend his final year at Hogwarts untangling the messes he’d inadvertently made.

So the only thing to do was to untangle them beforehand. 

“That’s a Bonneville,” said Lily as soon as they entered the workshop in which the motorcycle was being repaired. 

James gave Sirius a smug look. “Is it, now.”

“My dad tried to bring one home, once.” She approached it, running a finger over the worn leather seat. “Mum sent him right out. But he’d been fixing it up at the garage where he worked, and I knew for a fact he’d taken it out for a ride loads of times before that.” Her mouth curved into a sly smile. “I rode it when I was twelve.”

Sirius looked reluctantly impressed. “How long before you crashed?”

“Oh, about eleven minutes. Went right into a signpost, and Dad told Mum the scrapes were from the playground. I don’t know if she believed us at all.” Lily’s smile turned pensive. “It’ll make a good ride, when it’s done being fixed.”

“I think it’s supposed to be an exhibit,” said James.

She scoffed. “Right. How would you feel if the brooms in the shops down the street were for viewing only?”

“Well...you can’t just pick them off the rack and ride off into the sunset.”

“Regardless, people _buy_ them to ride them.”

“She’s got a point,” said Sirius. “It’s the same as the rest of the museum, but the motorcycle’s far more impressive when it’s moving. We ought to do a live demonstration.”

“So long as I get a go,” James said, grinning.

“You’re not the one being paid to bloody fix it!”

“You’re being paid to fix it, not ride it.”

Lily was tapping a finger to her chin. “If I consult for the museum, and I spend half the day helping you with the motorcycle, will you and I manage to go all summer without killing each other?”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” said Sirius coolly.

“I’m not asking for your permission,” she said, equally chilly. “I’m asking if we can cooperate long enough to get the job done.”

“And to think I didn’t even plan this,” James said to no one in particular.

“Shut up,” they both told him, then blinked at each other. He grinned. 

“We’ll need some proper manuals,” Lily said. “I can phone my dad’s old coworkers, maybe they’ll be able to send something down here—”

It was, he judged, a morning well spent. The sting of his lacklustre conversation with Marissa did not feel quite so sharp anymore.

* * *

_Interlude: Resolution_

It was Sunday, and Dorcas was in Diagon Alley. But duelling was off that afternoon. No one had owled her; according to the note Penelope had left with Mrs. Angler, they hadn’t the time. The Aurors had been called off for some urgent business, trainees included. 

Well, Penelope wasn’t one of them. But she had other plans too, apparently. Which left Doe with nothing to do but lurk in the Leaky Cauldron, which was uncharacteristically empty for this time of the week. She could have gone home, but to do so would mean facing her parents, who would just refuse to answer any of her questions, and then she would be in a foul mood for the rest of the day.

The previous week, when she’d come home still stunned after hearing her mother’s voice on the radio, she had asked her parents over dinner what they’d done that day.

“Anything interesting happen?”

Ruth Walker had simply shaken her head. “Nothing, love. I was in the shop all afternoon. You’re the one with the thrilling life — come on, then, tell us about duelling.”

So, nothing. They had not properly talked about the ADA, and their insistence that Doe not work in the Ministry. It was becoming increasingly clear to her that it was less about the former, and more because their own activism had become more high-profile.

She shouldn’t have been terribly surprised. For as long as she could remember her parents had had strong opinions about the Ministry and its policies; often those opinions were radically different from anything she read in the _Prophet_ or heard from her friends. But it wasn’t the fact that her mother was important enough to be interviewed that upset her.

No, it was that they would not _admit_ it to her. Did they think she could not be trusted? Did they worry how she would react? The idea was infuriating. Surely they knew how much she believed in the things that U&E promoted — they had, after all, raised her to do so. They had never treated her like a child before. They had always encouraged her to form her own opinions and speak her mind.

So what was different about this?

Doe fiddled with the wireless at the bar, glancing — pointlessly — around the empty room. Satisfied that no one was looking, she turned on Sonorus, catching the tail end of a Bowie song. As the hosts’ voices returned, so too did Tom the barkeep.

She reached for the wireless as if to switch it off, but he had certainly heard. They were both comically frozen, Doe with one hand on the dial and Tom halfway through wiping a mug. 

He spoke first. “That show’s started duels in here before. And I mean proper duels — the MLEP had to come in.”

“There’s no one here for me to duel with,” Doe pointed out.

“There’s him.” Tom nodded at someone over her shoulder.

She whipped around, heart racing. But it was only… “Michael. Hi.”

“Am I interrupting something?” Michael glanced between her and Tom, his brows raised.

“Not at all,” answered Tom, turning back his wiping. “If you plan on duelling, warn me so I can cast a shield.”

“We will,” Michael said slowly. He approached the bar and slid into a seat beside Doe.

“Should I be worried about the game?” she said. “The Cauldron’s safe, let me remind you.”

“You don’t need to be. Owen Redding knocked me out the very first week.” Michael grimaced, though he didn’t seem terribly upset about it. “I wanted a better showing, but ah, well.”

At least Doe had done well with tag so far. She’d easily knocked out Florence Quaille in the first week; her next target had been Mary, but then her friend had dropped out instead. After that had come Gaurav Singh and Kemi Kikelomo, which made her latest target Peter. And Peter would eat at the Cauldron when the other Marauders did, so Doe knew she would have him come Monday.

“You could help me tag Peter,” she said. “Pettigrew, that is. Distract him for me tomorrow.”

Michael laughed. “You know, I might take you up on that. It’s...lonely at home, during the summer. Magic feels very far away.”

Doe made a sympathetic sound. She knew Lily felt quite the same way — or she had, at least, back when she’d still lived up north. “Not that I don’t want you around Diagon Alley, since I do want your help...but don’t you live near Cornwall?”

“Yeah. What’s that got to do with anything?”

She gave him a look of disbelief. “You’re not serious? Tinworth’s right there.”

“Tinworth?” Michael repeated, still confused.

“Yes, Tinworth. As in, the seaside town? The magical one?”

He shook his head. “Haven’t the faintest.”

“Merlin, Michael. It’s fantastic — to think you live right there, and you didn’t know!”

“How would I have known?” he pointed out.

Doe was not deterred. “Don’t you read the _Prophet?_ There’s always adverts for all the shops along the pier.”

“I don’t read the _classifieds,_ no…”

“Well, maybe you ought to! Look, if we get Peter Pettigrew out tomorrow, I’ll take you to Tinworth. Portkey and everything, we’ll do it.”

Michael hesitated. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I’m just— Why would you _want_ to go with me?”

“We’re friends?” Doe considered that and rephrased. “Well, we _were_ friends, and we’ve hit a bump. But, Michael, it’s not as though we _hate_ each other. I still like you.”

Even if her crush had faded — and she felt that it had — she did not want to say goodbye to their friendship. And besides, this Tinworth idea was the most exciting thing she had on her plate, aside from dueling practice.

Maybe it would take her mind off her mother.

“Then...it’s done.”

Doe smiled. In the silence, all that remained was the warble of the wireless, on which more Muggle music was playing. _“L-O-L-A, Lo-Lo-Lo-Lo-Lola…”_

“Hey, that’s the Kinks!” Michael said, reaching across her to turn the volume up. “I didn’t know you could get Muggle stations in here.”

“It’s not a Muggle show,” Doe said. “It’s—” The explanation sat on the tip of her tongue. This would be the very first person she told about Sonorus. “You know, I’ll tell you some other day. Fancy an ice cream?”

She switched the wireless off on their way out.

* * *

_iii. Dancing Queen_

Life was unfair. That was a fact that Mary had had to come to terms with on this holiday. She was no less aware of it on Sunday night, in the warm, sticky air of the Jolly Judge, with the clamour of bagpipes ringing in her ears. 

If life were fair, she would have easily outdanced everyone in the pub, and the whole crowd would have counted down to midnight for her birthday.

Well, maybe that was if life were a film.

As things stood, though, Mary was a fine dancer — not as talented as some of the locals, but competent enough to hold her own. The unfairness came from Chris Townes, who had picked up the footwork with ridiculous quickness.

“Quidditch reflexes,” he’d said, grinning.

“You don’t play that with your _feet,”_ Mary said, frowning.

“Play what with your feet?” said Shannon.

“Rugby,” said Mary.

“Tennis,” said Chris.

Eventually, though, Shannon and Chris had grown tired of dancing. Shannon had told Mary — in a near-shout, so she could be heard over the music — that they were going for a walk. Mary took this to mean some kind of consummation would at last be taking place. At least, she assumed that Shannon would’ve mentioned it if she had kissed Chris, so she probably _hadn’t,_ but, again, Chris Townes was not about to spend all holiday just _talking_ with a girl…

What was wrong with her? She was away from her parents, in beautiful Skye, on the eve of her seventeenth birthday. And she was thinking about Chris Townes, and her _cousin,_ for whom she ought to wish nothing but the best.

In fact, most of her enjoyment had come when she’d put the pair out of her mind entirely. And _that_ had only happened when she and David had visited Portree’s Pride, which had dissolved quickly into bawdy drinking songs and a competition she had very nearly won. 

_That_ was what Mary wanted to be doing the night before her birthday.

She stopped mid-step — much to her partner’s consternation — and pushed through the audience. True to form, David was exactly where they’d left him at the beginning of the night. Except, he had waited. That _was_ a surprise.

“I thought you’d be long gone by now,” said Mary. “Isn’t your bedtime a healthy ten o’clock?”

“Hilarious,” David said over the top of his book. “Really, I’m clutching my sides with laughter.”

“I can tell. Come on, let’s ditch the jigs.”

Just as he had last time, David put his book away with no argument. “So long as we’re not going on a _walk.”_

She grimaced. So he too had been fed that line. “Don’t worry. Chris has warned me, and I quote, not to get my claws into you. It spoiled all my nefarious holiday plans.”

Predictably, he flushed. “You’re joking.”

“Well, I am about that last bit. But that is what Chris said to me.”

“Christ.”

“I know. Come _on,_ I want to get a few drinking songs in before midnight!”

The cool night breeze was a welcome respite from the pub’s sweaty crowd. Mary revelled in it for a long moment, sucking in a big breath before she pushed open the door to Portree’s Pride.

“Do you plan on telling them it’s going to be your seventeenth birthday?” said David. “And, you know, inadvertently revealing that you’re underage?”

“Come on, I’m mates with all of them by now. Geezer loves me.” Mary pointed at the toothless wizard in the corner. “Finn and Terry love me.” She pointed at the young men in question, twins, who raised their tankards in greeting. “One-Eyed Orla loves me.” She pointed at the terrifying bartender. “Besides, what could they possibly do? Ban me for breaking the law in the _past?”_

“I don’t think you have the slightest idea how the law works.”

“So sue me,” Mary said.

“That’s— You are proving my point.”

Mary ignored him and went to Orla, who promptly poured her the shocking purple drink that was Portree’s Pride’s specialty. It was, she’d judged, too good to be four hundred years old. At least, that was the argument that had convinced David to give it a try. 

“My birthday’s tomorrow, Orla,” Mary announced, loud enough for half the bar to hear her. (David sighed.) “Can you put on some proper music? If it can be heard over the bagpipes from next door, that is.”

“Am I a witch, or am I a witch?” retorted the bartender — a frequent refrain of hers. “Same for you, Sassenach?” 

David had reluctantly accepted the nickname; he sighed once more as he sat on the barstool beside Mary. “I’ve never had a headache as bad as the one I got after drinking that.”

“That’s how you know it’s working,” Orla said, turning up her radio. 

Six drinks later for Mary, and four later for David, Portree’s Pride was beginning to look like the most comfortable place in the world.

“No, David Townes, like it’s home,” she was trying to explain, “but also underwater.”

“You’re not making — any sense,” David said, through laughter. 

“It makes perfect sense! See, everything’s all wobbly — wibbly—”

“You’re so sloshed. Oh, God, I’ll have to carry you back to your cottage. I don’t know if I can do that.”

Orla snorted. “I’ll carry her back, lad. Jesus help us.”

Mary snickered. “I won’t have to be carried by anyone. Honest. Look, I can string together a sentence perfectly — perfectly well.”

“You’re swaying, Mary. You’re sitting down and you’re still swaying.”

“David Townes, don’t be a prick.”

“And you keep saying my full name, like you’re afraid you’ll forget it.”

Mary pouted. “I’m not going to _forget_ it. It rolls off the tongue.”

He dodged her attempt to swat him, and held his wrist up to her face. “It’s...four minutes to midnight.”

Mary gasped with delight. “Orla, turn up the music, would you?”

“They’re just _talking,”_ Orla grumbled, but she did so nevertheless.

 _“—from their newest record,_ All Talk, _here’s “A Rousing Good Time,” by—”_

“The Gobstones!” Mary and David shouted at once, in unison. The pub’s other patrons echoed the cheer back to them. 

“It’s the perfect song to turn seventeen to,” Mary said, beaming. She likely would have said the same thing about any song that had come on in that moment, but that didn’t mean the feeling was insincere. “It’s just… It’s perfect!”

“Stop talking about how perfect it is, and _listen_ to it,” said David, pulling the wireless closer.

The bass line vibrated through the wooden bartop, rattling around in the back of Mary’s skull. She was closing her eyes without even realising it. And the guitar’s strumming followed, then the low croon of the singer’s voice…

David and some of the other people in the pub were singing along, but she followed his advice and just _listened._ To the crash of the drum solo, the singer’s last, breathy note, the chorus echoing through the room and reverberating through the walls: _I wonder, I wonder, I wonder._

Mary opened her eyes. “I’m seventeen,” she breathed. And then, louder, “It’s my _birthday!”_

One-Eyed Orla took up the chant. “It’s her birthday!” she roared, easily audible over the deafening music. She pointed at her own cheek, then at Mary. “A kiss for the birthday girl?”

“Oh!” Mary exchanged a bemused look with David, who shrugged, smiling, as if to say _why not?_ She leaned across the bar and offered her cheek to the witch. “Yes, go ahead—”

Orla’s peck was surprisingly dainty; Mary grinned, and blew her a kiss in return. To her surprise, the ten-foot bartender blushed. 

There was a tap at her shoulder. She turned to see Finn, one of the twins, wearing a shy smile.

“Speakin’ of birthday kisses,” he said, trailing off suggestively.

“Easy, now,” Orla warned.

Oh, Mary did not need further explanation. “Don’t worry, Orla.” She hopped off the barstool, tossing her hair. “Give it here,” she said, and Finn pulled her into his embrace.

When they parted, Mary patted his cheek appreciatively and slid back into her seat. David seemed profoundly embarrassed, and was looking straight into his drink. “ _This_ is a good beginning,” she declared. She elbowed him in the ribs. “Thanks for tagging along.”

David startled. “Hm? Oh. Well, I’ve read my book before.”

Mary snorted. “Keep me humble, why don’t you.”

He didn’t get a chance to respond. The door swung open so forcefully that it slammed into the wall, and a squat, unkempt wizard stumbled through it.

“I’m not too late, am I?” Mundungus Fletcher croaked. “I can still get a drink?”

Mary’s brows shot up. In her current, alcohol-addled state, one thing had suddenly sharpened into crystalline clarity: she had never been repaid by Mundungus, when she’d gone into the Hog’s Head to retrieve his gold for him. And here he was, like divine providence, when she was in an asking mood.

“What’s wrong?” David was glancing between her and Mundungus, evidently worried by whatever he was seeing.

“I’m about to collect, David Townes. What a happy coincidence.” 

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“You will. Come on.” 

Mundungus had settled at a table, so Mary wobbled her way towards him, slamming her hands down on its surface. 

He yelped. “It’s you!”

Mary’s voice was syrup-sweet. _“Hello,_ sunshine.”

_"Well, that was longer than I expected, but our good friends at the Ministry — don't laugh, Angharad — finally have a name for us. Big news this morning as Aurors arrest Alistair Longbottom, who is one of the British delegates to the International Confederation of Wizards. All I can say is...blimey."_

_"Blimey's right. I mean, a career diplomat? That's what Longbottom is, by the way. Comes from a long line of ICW dependables, and is one of the more prominent magical names out there. In short, I would not have pegged him for a terrorist. But all we've got is a name now, so more on the investigation as and when it unfolds."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wHew never let me try to update over a holiday weekend again!!!
> 
> as always, chapter playlist is on my tumblr. and once again multiple characters took me by surprise, which is part of why this took so long — i actually had to rewrite some bits as people changed their minds! anyway, was anyone else surprised by certain turns here? tell me what they were!
> 
> and thank you for your patience, and for the concerned anons lol — i am fine, nothing has happened, i just forgot how much needed to go into this chapter and also i bought a switch this week, so i've been #gaming. anyway, this is mayyybe the longest chapter so far, whew, and saerw on tumblr brought to my attention that this fic is now longer than ootp, which is the longest book. 
> 
> well. that is long.
> 
> so, thank you so so much for sticking with this! i am considering splitting the years so that seventh year is its own separate "fic" in the same series, but i feel like i personally never read fics split up like that (LOL) so i would love to hear your opinions. good? bad? is 70 chapters off-putting? let me know!
> 
> signing off so i can get this up asap, thank you sm sm sm for reading, and please do leave a comment. even if it's just a smiley face. i'll love you for it, promise
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	31. The Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Back in April, Mary ran into Mundungus Fletcher in Hogsmeade, and retrieved a bag of gold for him from the Hog's Head (he is banned from the premises). The Death Eaters smuggled compulsion objects from Dervish and Banges to the Ministry; Germaine is in her sister's DMLE office on the day the scheme is discovered, and only just manages to escape a security shutdown. Later, she's questioned about what she saw, and Emmeline Vance tells her the objects might be quills, though her sister assures her that all her quills have been confiscated. Lily and Sirius are helping repair a motorcycle for the Museum of Muggle Curiosities. Doe attends a weekly fight club with Frank, Alice, and some other first-year Aurors in training. James's parents want him to have Marissa over for dinner, but he wonders if their relationship has run its course. On Mary's holiday, she runs into ex-hookup Chris Townes, and her cousin hits it off with him. She's stuck hanging out with Chris's introverted brother David. The Aurors arrest Alistair Longbottom, Frank's father, for the object-smuggling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you to all who voted for Come Together in the first round of the Jily Awards! You can vote again in the second round for CT and many, many other amazing fanworks [here](https://jilyawards2020.tumblr.com/post/636731645789159424/round-2-of-voting-is-open). 
> 
> Also, this fic has reached 100 subscribers here! Wild. Amazing. So grateful for you all.

_i. All Systems Go_

“No,” Lily said, squinting at the manual spread across her lap, “no, there _is_ no fuel tank.”

The museum’s workshop was already growing uncomfortably warm, though it was only a little past nine in the morning. Come noon it would be boiling. Not, on the whole, an environment she wanted to be trapped in with Sirius Black. 

Her search for a job had turned up empty. Most of Diagon Alley’s shops already had their summer salespeople. Lily supposed she could have tried Hogsmeade, now that she could Apparate, but she didn’t like the idea of being so far away from home. She suspected that Petunia wouldn’t have liked it either. 

So she was working at a florist’s, down the road from where the sisters lived. That was that for Mrs. Roland and Nigel, thankfully. And on her free day, Friday, Lily made good on her promise and came to the museum, both to answer Benjy Fenwick’s questions and to help with the motorcycle.

At least, she hoped she was helping. It was only her second week.

“Why—” Sirius sat up with effort “—is there no fuel tank?”

“The fuel runs through the frame. It’s what makes it so fast.”

That, at least, explained what they’d seen when they’d prised off where the tank normally was. The metal casing, _Triumph_ emblazoned upon it in faded lettering, lay to one side. 

“Then how am I supposed to check the fuel tank?” His voice was thick with frustration. “And without magic?”

“If we want to take it to a mechanic,” Lily began, knowing already how this line of argument would be received.

It was just as she’d expected. Sirius narrowed his eyes at her. “It’s my _job,_ Evans. I’m not outsourcing it to someone else.”

For someone who had never had a job before, she refrained from saying, he felt awfully strongly about what it entailed. 

“What you’re trying to do is a full restoration,” she said. “It could take months to clean out and oil each individual part, you know, and reassemble them into a functioning motorcycle.”

“I don’t have months.”

“Yes. You ought to have considered that before you knocked it over.”

He scowled.

She sighed and set the manual down. She hadn't meant to snap, despite the fact that he still owed her a proper apology. Her Fridays were increasingly becoming her getaway days — from Petunia, who phoned the flat on Lily’s lunch break to _check in,_ and had asked a hundred different nosy questions about what she did on her day off. 

Lily appreciated the concern, really. But it was beginning to cross the line from sweet to mental. Petunia could be given a little leeway, considering the sisters were hosting Vernon Dursley for supper that night and she compulsively needed everything to be perfect. (Lily had been requested to come home by four sharp, so they could begin preparing.) Still, only a _little_ leeway.

“We can check the plumbing when we sort out how. For now—” Lily tossed Sirius the greasy rag he’d set aside in despair some time back. “Let’s stick to polishing.”

“It feels backwards,” Sirius muttered.

She had to agree. Lily was just as frustrated as he — or perhaps more so, considering she had seen her father tweak the very same model of motorcycle and did not have concrete suggestions to make based on those memories. Why had she happily tuned out her father’s rambling? Why had that younger, lighter Lily not _known,_ somehow, to better value the time she had with him?

“It’s either that or make no progress whatsoever,” she said, picking up a rag of her own. 

The mindless tasks were at least satisfying — and not just because they hadn’t yet solved any of the motorcycle’s real issues. It was easier to work beside Sirius in silence, no matter what nasty things she wanted to say to him on occasion. Despite how inseparable the boys were, Sirius Black was a markedly different story than James. For all their years of arguing Lily and James both burned hot; Sirius, by contrast, ran cold and slow, primed to explode when least expected. She would already be dealing with Vernon that night. She had no desire to have a warm-up go at Sirius. 

She’d run her rag over the same hubcap at least five hundred times before a sound broke her out of her daze.

“What did you say?” Lily looked up at Sirius, who was staring at the ajar door.

“I didn’t say anything. It came from outside.”

It was indeed coming from outside. “ _Where_ is the workshop!” a voice called.

Lily faintly heard Roxanne give a disgruntled answer. And then the workshop door flew open, revealing Dorcas, in dungarees and a bright yellow T-shirt, with a lime-green radio clutched in one hand.

“For Merlin’s sake,” Doe said, breathless, “why are you _hidden away_ back here?”

Sirius went back to polishing. 

“I Apparated all the way to Burnley Street before I remembered it was your day off.” Doe marched up to Lily and snatched the rag right out of her hand. “Get up, we’re going to the Ministry.” She glanced at Sirius. “You too, I suppose.”

“I’m just happy I was invited,” Sirius drawled. “Why are we going to the Ministry?”

In response Doe switched on the radio and — _whispered_ to it? 

Nonplussed, Lily said, “Is that a new radio?”

“Birthday gift,” said Doe, a brief shadow flitting across her expression. “Listen.” She set it down between Lily and Sirius, who leaned closer with interest. Lily arched a brow at him; he shrugged, as if to say _why not?_

The radio crackled to life, playing a short, chimelike melody. Then the tune was gone, and they could hear voices instead.

A woman said, _“—is this working? Sorry, the broadcast spell might be wonky, we’ve never done this outside of the studio—”_

 _“Shh!”_ cut in another. _“Hello, listeners, we’re your hosts at Sonorus. I’m Rhiannon, and this is Angharad—”_

 _“Hi,”_ the first woman said.

_“If you’re wondering why we’re not taking calls and playing music, as is our custom at nine sharp on Fridays, it’s because we’re on our way to the open trial in the Ministry’s courtrooms.”_

_“Alistair Longbottom’s trial, to be clear. If you’ve got something to say about the ADA and our ministry taking away our right to peaceful protest and assembly, you’ll meet us there.”_

And the message crackled out, replaced by the cheery tune once more. Ten seconds in, and the same message played back. It must have been some sort of repeating broadcast.

“It beat the morning’s _Prophet,”_ Doe was saying, “but the WWN morning news reported it. That the trial’s open to the public, I mean. It’s a nice little quandary for Crouch. He’s been talking a big game about how hard he’ll be on Death Eaters, and then one of the most well-known Ministry wizards gets caught supposedly smuggling things for them?”

“He’s got to make it seem like things are aboveboard,” Sirius said slowly. “Or else the blood purity brigade will jump down his neck — if it seems like he’s going after them, and not more progressive families.”

“Exactly!” Doe said.

“But the ADA bill’s got nothing to do with Alistair Longbottom,” said Lily. 

“Well, is it an organised demonstration if I’m simply a civically engaged witch coming to observe our judicial process at work?” A glint of triumph was visible in Doe’s eyes. “Don’t you see, Lily? It’s an assembly of the full Wizengamot, the people who passed that rubbish law in the first place. This is a chance to put our disapproval right in front of them, a chance we’re not likely to get again!”

Lily opened her mouth, but Sirius beat her to the punch.

“I’m in,” he declared, “but I’ll have to get the others first. You can go ahead without me.” He tossed his rag aside and made for the door.

The girls watched him go. _“That_ wasn’t what I was expecting,” Doe said. “Come on, it’s just you and me.”

Lily dusted herself off as she stood. “Are Germaine and Mary busy?”

Doe winced. “Well — after her questioning, Germaine wants to keep away from the Ministry. Mary...was out.”

“Mary was out, at nine in the morning?” Unlike Lily, Mary _could_ function in the early hours of the day, but that seemed a bit far for any self-respecting student on summer holiday.

Doe shrugged. “Running errands for her mum or something. There wasn’t time to ask. Come on, we need to go or they’ll close the doors before we make it!”

“Well, I’ve got to tell Benjy and he’s out—”

“Lily,” Doe said, her normally-infinite patience flagging at last, “he doesn’t even pay you. Just leave him a note.”

“Oh, all right.”

She found a scrap of spare parchment amidst the workshop’s clutter and scrawled an excuse over it, then hurried through the museum with Dorcas in tow. Roxanne was at her desk, examining her nails idly. 

“Roxanne, would you give this to Benjy?” Lily slapped the note onto the desk. 

The receptionist had eased up on her since her first, tipsy visit to the museum — coworkers, in Roxanne’s estimation, were a rung above the general populace. She swiped up the note and tucked it into a drawer. 

“I will, but it’ll probably only be tomorrow,” she said airily. 

Lily frowned. “Tomorrow? Is Benjy ill?” 

_“Lily!”_ Doe hissed from the door. 

“Don’t think so,” said Roxanne. “He owled to say you and Black could have the day off. He’s at some Ministry thing.”

“For God’s sake,” said Doe, throwing up her hands in disbelief. 

“Weren’t you going to tell us?” Lily said, more amused than angry. 

Roxanne shrugged. “Maybe on your lunch break.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “Go on, then, you’re clogging up the entrance.”

Rather than have to deal with Apparition, the girls walked up Charing Cross Road. Doe led the way, her steps hurried; she was not sure what sight would await them at the Ministry’s Leicester Square entrance. Germaine had told her visitors had to go through a telephone box. If there was a crowd, how on earth would they all fit?

Neither she nor Lily was prepared for what they arrived to see. At least a hundred people — many in robes — milled about the street, queued up for the phone box. 

“This is a Statute of Secrecy nightmare,” Doe said, eyes wide. Rare was the car that drove past, but Muggles on foot gave the crowd curious looks. Someone had cleverly brought a sign that read _Pagan Convention 1977,_ though there was no telling how long that would fool anyone for. Soon enough the Muggle police would come round to see what the commotion was.

“I don’t think they’ll let everyone in, Doe. How can they?” Lily was balanced on her toes, craning her neck to get a glimpse of the front of the queue. 

“No, you’re right. We need someone with a Floo connection to the Ministry. Do we know anyone who…”

Lily met her gaze. “Germaine, obviously.”

Only, Germaine hadn’t wanted to be involved, and Doe didn’t want to drag her into anything… Her hesitation must have been apparent on her face, because Lily grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her away from the crowd. 

“If you want to get inside the Ministry, we’ve no choice.”

“All right…”

They ducked into an alley and emerged onto the quiet residential street Abigail lived on. The newly familiar twist of nausea took a moment to fade; Doe had passed her Apparition test only two weeks before. When the world had stopped swimming in and out of focus, they started down the road.

This was not a Muggle area, she knew, but even so its peacefulness belied the activity at the Ministry. What a surreal thought, that wixen were right now in their homes or at their workplaces while others crowded into a Wizengamot courtroom. Every day history was being made, in steps both big and small, and it was easier to find out after the fact than to participate in it. 

But she was tired of being a bystander.

“—must be difficult for him,” Lily was saying as they pushed through the Kings’ garden gate. “Did you hear half of what I said, Doe?”

Doe skirted the cabbage patch, throwing a backward glance at her friend. “Er. No. Difficult for whom?”

“Frank. You saw him on Sunday, didn’t you? Or — did he not come to the meeting?”

She winced. “No, actually. They cancelled the meeting on the day his dad was arrested, and he didn’t show last Sunday.” 

At first Doe had been glad to have _some_ thing to do — something other than milling about her parents’ shop, and sniping at her mother (which would then lead to an argument with her father). But it had quickly become clear that this meeting would be the most miserable one yet. 

Doe had arrived early as always. For the first time, Alice and Penelope had not beat her to B&S, so there was no Sonorus to greet her as she entered. She’d set up the attic by herself, levitating the crates out of the way and cracking open the windows. By the time the others arrived she’d run out of things to do, and was sitting on a crate quite literally twiddling her thumbs.

The Payne twins came in first, wearing matching frowns. They’d exchanged pleasantries and fallen into silence. Doe was reminded of the one funeral she’d attended. Penelope had brought a radio, which was a relief; she put on a WWN channel after the silence had become too heavy. 

Kieran O’Malley had come in next, to everyone’s surprise. Not that Doe hadn’t expected him to come — but Kieran timed his arrival to perfection week after week, only appearing a minute before they were due to start.

Which meant Alice was late. And that had never happened before.

Even Kieran had looked shocked when he realised, squinting around the attic as though Alice could be hiding behind a crate. “No St. Martin?” he said at last. “Because, er, I’ve got somewhere to be after this…”

Penelope glared at him. “You could _try_ a little compassion, Kieran.”

He shrugged. “It’s not that I don’t feel bad for Longbottom. I’ve got my life to live.”

“Never mind that _Frank,_ your _classmate,_ will have an uphill climb in the Auror Office if his dad is a convicted felon?” Penelope spoke through clenched teeth.

“If the old man really did it, well, he deserves the punishment.”

“Of course he didn’t do it! This is Frank’s _father_ we’re talking about. He wouldn’t harm a fly!”

Doe and Roderick exchanged a glance. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Kieran said. _“We—”_ he pointed at himself and Roderick, who appeared very uncomfortable at this association “—saw the evidence. They found some of the objects in his office. _And_ he was in Hogsmeade multiple times in the last few months.” He waggled his eyebrows as if to say _so there._

“As if,” Penelope said. “Mr. Longbottom practically works Sunday nights.”

Roderick winced. “We did see the evidence,” he mumbled.

Doe’s stomach had sunk. “I saw him,” she said, hardly aware she was speaking aloud.

“What?” Penelope turned to stare at her, as if she’d forgotten Doe was in the room. 

All three of them were watching her expectantly; she shrank back under the scrutiny.

“I saw him,” Doe said again, seeing no way out but to explain. If she even knew enough to explain, anyway. The trial seemed so far removed from anything she could control. And to think, if she had her way, she would be in their position in two years’ time. “But— I mean, Frank saw him too. It’s not like it was a secret. He was there to meet Alice!”

Penelope had gone pale; she glanced at Kieran now. _“Multiple_ times, you said?” 

“Suspicious behaviour, isn’t it? From a man who’s chained to his desk?” He sat back, having made his case.

Right on cue, the attic door swung open again. Alice stood in the entrance, breathless, as if she’d run up the stairs. Her buttery blonde hair was plaited back instead of loose; her sundress was freshly-ironed. If not for her puffy eyes and pink cheeks — and, of course, the fact that she was late — Doe wouldn’t have suspected anything had happened at all.

She let her bag fall to the floor and dug out her wand. “Well? What are we waiting for?” she said briskly.

No one answered right away.

“We’re an odd number,” said Penelope slowly. 

“Frank’s not coming, then?” Kieran said.

The twins shot him scowls. 

“I wouldn’t know,” Alice said, the firm finality of her words undone by how her voice wavered on them. 

Penelope’s brows jumped up. “You...wouldn’t know?”

“No,” said Alice. And then, before anyone could ask any more questions, she said, “Let’s begin.” 

Gone were the friendly, casual duels of the weeks before. The twins were more careful than they’d ever been, too concerned to put up a proper fight. Alice was the opposite; she duelled with such ferocity that at one point she sent Kieran flying into the wall. 

Doe shuddered, returning to the present. “I don’t think _I’d_ be duelling if my dad had been arrested.”

Lily knocked on the door to the annexe where Germaine and Abigail lived. “No, I suppose not.” She frowned, adding, “Is he in Azkaban, d’you think?”

“Apparently.” The prison was guarded, she’d heard, by a handful of soul-sucking Dementors. It was awful just to think about. 

Lily seemed as uncomfortable as she felt. “If he really did it, that’s one thing. But…” 

“But if he’s innocent, it’d be awful.” There was no getting around that fact.

The door opened, revealing Germaine still in her pyjamas and holding a slice of toast. Stifling a yawn, she said, “Back so soon? I didn’t think the trial would be that short.”

“Hilarious,” Doe deadpanned. “Look, could we use Abigail’s fireplace? The visitors’ entrance was so bloody crowded.”

Germaine squirmed visibly. “I’m not so—”

“We’re not going to force you,” said Lily quickly. “We can find someone else… Sara definitely has a connection to the Ministry, yeah? Or...Or Evan Wronecki.”

Germaine huffed. “Oh, come in. I’m not sending you off to hunt down Evan Wronecki. God only knows what he’s doing now that he’s finished with school.” She ushered the girls in, shutting the door behind them. 

Doe and Lily made for the small sitting room at once. Its fireplace looked a little out of place, its brick imperfectly lined up with the wall around it. Germaine saw Doe staring, and said, sheepishly, “The annexe didn’t have a fireplace at first. Abigail asked them to put it in so she wouldn’t have to take the main employees’ entrance. It’s through a _toilet,_ can you imagine?”

“I really can’t.” Doe noticed Lily’s expression and grinned. “What if Lily and I had had to take a toilet to work each morning?”

Germaine snorted. _“Pass,_ a million times over. Floo powder’s on the mantel — d’you want some toast before you go?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Doe followed the faint bready smell to the kitchen and picked up a slice from the plate Germaine had set out. “You’re sure you don’t want to come?”

“I’ve caused enough trouble for Abigail as is.” Germaine shook her head. “You’ll have to give me the highlights.” 

“You can listen on the WWN,” Lily offered. She was shifting from one foot to the other, a nervous tic. “I’m sure the news will cover the trial.” 

Doe found the box of Floo powder and held it out to Lily first. “Is it just 'Ministry of Magic,' or 'Ministry of Magic Atrium,' or…?”

“Abigail’s said both. I don’t think it matters,” said Germaine through a mouthful of toast. 

“If I end up in Ireland, I’m Apparating back to throttle you.” And with that, Lily tossed a handful of the bright-green powder into the fire, and stepped in after it.

When Lily had vanished, Doe poured out her own fistful of powder and made for the fireplace. Before she could throw it in, Germaine grabbed her by the arm. A thin stream of Floo powder sprinkled onto the carpet, some grains sizzling a brief flash of green in the fire.

“Germaine, _God,_ I nearly walked into the fire—” Doe said, her heart racing. She smacked her friend’s hand away and spilled still more powder onto the carpet. _Sorry, Abigail._

“Did you get a chance to speak with your mum?” Germaine said, unbothered by Doe’s reproach.

She wanted to cross her arms over her chest, as a sort of protection against this line of questioning, but that would only serve to get Floo powder in her dungarees. Doe stared at the crackling fire instead of Germaine. The flames were already bringing the cosy room to a stifling level of heat. 

“When could I have spoken to her?” said Doe. “I went straight from your door to Diagon Alley.”

“You could make time to speak to her at the protest.”

 _“At_ the protest? What, just pull her aside for a quick chat in the middle of a trial?”

“You’re smart, you’ll think of a way.”

Doe gave her a pointed look. “Seriously.”

 _“Seriously._ You can’t fight with her forever.”

Ostensibly this was good advice. But Doe sighed. “I wish I hadn’t blabbed about it to you.” 

That was her own fault, for Apparating to see Germaine right after that morning’s argument. She’d shown up at the door breathless with anger and choked-back tears, in no state to gently convince anyone to join her in protesting. And of course she’d been in no state to pretend things were all right at home.

Then again, better Germaine than Lily, who on the best of days was fiercely involved in pretending _her_ family was all right, or Mary, who had an enviably easy home life. Germaine knew what it was like to argue with one’s parents. She’d been doing it longer than Doe ever had.

“You’re not blabbing,” Germaine said, unruffled. “You’re confiding. But look, you’ve got a protest to get to. Go tell your mum thanks for the T-shirt, that’ll get the ball rolling.”

Doe rolled her eyes, glancing down at her own chest. The letters _Unity & Equality _ were obscured by her dungarees, the better to hide their very un-Muggle animation. But her lips had quirked into a small smile.

“I’ll try,” she said finally. 

“That’s the spirit. Get going before you get Floo powder all over the carpet, please.”

Another pointed eyeroll, and Doe was stepping into the green flames.

The Ministry was _enormous._ That was Lily’s first thought, upon coming out of the fireplace and into the building’s atrium. She couldn’t fathom how this space fit into Leicester Square — although, considering that magic was probably a significant part of _how,_ it oughtn’t to have surprised her so. Still, she stared up at the vaulted ceiling, across the length of the Atrium, until she realised she must look awfully clueless. Flushing, Lily considered the people instead. 

It was after nine, so she judged that the throng of people loitering around the massive fountain adorning the centre of the Atrium had nothing to do with the early morning rush. Which meant that they were all there to watch the trial — or to protest. She couldn’t properly estimate the size of the crowd in such a large room, and certainly not from so far away. But if Lily had to guess, she might have said a hundred people. And that was not including the group that had been outside the Ministry earlier, who might or might not have made it inside. 

It was both dizzying and thrilling, this feeling she felt when she took in the crowd and realised that she was part of something. Not all of them would agree with her. In fact, some of them likely thought she was undeserving of her place at Hogwarts. But they were adults, living magical lives, and such a life would be open to her too in a year, no matter how isolated living with Petunia could feel. Later, when Lily had the chance to consider it, she would compare it to her first time entering Hogwarts. Her hopes had been confirmed once more — that there _was_ truth to all the stories, that she was really a witch, that she could carve her place in this world even if it needed to be by force. 

The fireplace she’d just stepped out of roared to life. Lily, startling a little, backed away from it. But it was only Dorcas, shaking soot from her sandals. 

Doe was walking and talking in the same instant she emerged from the fire, or so it seemed to a still-shellshocked Lily. “We ought to hurry; they start at half past, and Merlin only knows what the rush will be like outside the courtroom— Why have they stopped us?”

“Why have they what?” 

In all of Lily’s awe, she hadn’t noticed the hold-up at the front of the crowd. A wall of desks separated the crowd from the lifts, she now saw, and behind the desks stood half a dozen nervous security witches and wizards. 

“Perhaps we should go ask,” Lily said doubtfully.

“They’re supposed to check people’s wands on the way in.”

But they didn’t seem to be checking much of anything. 

“Maybe the courtroom isn’t open yet?”

Doe glanced at her watch. “It’s nearly nine-thirty. No chance they’re still waiting to seat everyone.” She dug out her radio again and began to fiddle with it.

Lily glanced around, suddenly nervous. “Won’t people think you’re up to something funny with that?”

Doe did not look up. “It’s not Parliament, Lily. If I wanted to get up to something funny, I’d just take my wand out.”

“Oh. Right.”

Just as she had in the museum, she muttered something to the radio. A spell of some sort, Lily wondered? But then voices could be heard through it, and both girls fell silent, leaning closer to hear.

 _“—last transmission of the morning,”_ one of the hosts whispered, _“since you need a press pass to make broadcasts from inside the Ministry’s courtrooms, and legitimate we are not. This is coming to you from the loo, actually.”_

Lily snorted.

_“Rest assured we will have the full story of what we see and hear today in the evening after the Wizengamot adjourns. Now, we’ve got to go so we don’t lose our seats—”_

“They’re inside,” said Doe, “so that means they’ve let people through already.” A grim determination came over her as she tucked her radio away. Lily let Doe take her hand and simply followed as her friend marched towards the crowd, head held high.

“Who are they?” she said as they walked, hurrying to keep pace with Doe’s purposeful stride.

“The hosts? I don’t know, actually. They never use their full names.” For a moment something like bitterness twisted Doe’s mouth. But it was gone in a flash, replaced by bubbly enthusiasm. “Their show is brilliant. It’s called Sonorus, they do interviews and news segments and— Oh, and Muggle _and_ magical music, you’d love it. Except, you need a magical radio for it—” she patted her pocket “—and a password, remind me to show you how later today—”

“I will,” Lily promised. And then they dove into the crowd.

Lily and Doe, as two relatively short girls, were at a distinct disadvantage here. When they had to move through large groups of people, such as the post-Quidditch match walk to the castle, they had a secret weapon: Mary, who could be counted on to take one of them by hand, command them to form a chain, and push through students of all ages and sizes with shouts of _excuse me!_ Now Lily ducked to avoid stray elbows and clutched Doe’s fingers for dear life, unsure if they were at all moving in the right direction.

But presently they found a pocket of empty space and squeezed into it. They were much closer to the desks now, close enough that Lily could make out the gleaming silver security badges on the Ministry officials’ robes. 

“The courtroom doors’ll close at nine-thirty,” someone at the front of the crowd was saying. “Come on, you’ve got to let us in before then.”

The security guards looked at on e another uncertainly. “Sorry, mate,” one of them said, sounding truly apologetic. “The courtroom’s at capacity.”

That sent a ripple of murmurs through the Atrium. Lily, clinging onto Doe’s hand, could feel her friend wilt slightly. 

“No, it’s not,” another voice said loudly — a familiar one, she thought, and Lily craned her neck in the direction it had come from. 

The crowd shifted, heads moving apart, until she could make out a head of messy, dark hair. 

“It’s not at capacity,” James Potter said with great cheer, as if this were a friendly disagreement he was looking forward to being on the other side of. “It can’t be. The Wizengamot courtrooms are all built to expand.” He glanced at the surprised people around him. “C’mon. It’d be a bit stupid if they weren’t.”

“Is that true?” demanded one witch. “It’s an open trial, innit? There’s no reason to stop us here — or if there _is,_ you have to tell us!”

A chorus of yeses followed; the security guards grew more nervous by the moment. A wizard in yellow said, “Just inspect our wands and get it over with.” 

“Oh, God.” Doe pressed closer to Lily. “What if there’s a _stampede?”_

She wanted to believe such a thing would not happen, but the antsy crowd combined with the flimsy desk barricade did not inspire confidence. “If there is — and there might not be — we make for the wall and cast _Protego.”_

Another wave of restlessness swept through the group, sending an anxious thrum through Lily’s bloodstream. The immediate energy she’d felt upon seeing so many people now sloshed around like too much fizzy drink in her stomach. But before it could come to shield charms, there was the screech of lift doors opening, and three robed figures swept into the Atrium behind the barricade.

The witch who led them was tall and brown-skinned, her rich purple dress embroidered with delicate silver thread. “What on earth is going on here?”

“Er, mornin’, Madam Shafiq,” one of the security witches said, her voice a squeak. “Madam Burke’s said the courtroom can’t take any more audience members...”

Zainab Shafiq — for the woman was indeed Sara’s aunt — scoffed at that. “Leave Agnes Burke to me, please, Willa. If you would continue examining these visitors’ wands, I will wait and assist you in any way I can.”

One of the wizards who’d come with her said, “I’ll go see about the visitors’ entrance, then. No reason why we can’t speed things along, take everyone through the main entrance—”

“The security concerns,” another of the guards began, “Mr. Macmillan, we’d have to process a great deal of wands before the doors close—”

Macmillan gave a pointed sniff. “If Barty Crouch wanted an open trial, he ought to have staffed the Atrium with personnel from _his_ end of the DMLE and ensured a smoother process. These people have been waiting, and my colleagues are of the opinion that they should be allowed to enter.”

“But the doors—”

“They will not,” Madam Shafiq said, “begin the Wizengamot session without _us.”_

Surely as if the Wizengamot members had spoken a magical incantation, the barricades were reassembled into checkpoints, and the crowd began to coalesce into a queue. Doe pulled Lily out of their group, much to her surprise, and crossed the floor quickly towards a different one.

“But we were already in—”

“We should be near the blokes,” Doe said, scanning the other lines until she’d spotted the Marauders.

Lily offered little resistance, though her gaze had landed — warily — on the back of Sirius’s head. “Surely we don’t need them to protect us.”

“I like our odds in a duel against them,” said Doe drily, “but I meant, we ought to sit next to people we know and at least somewhat like. And on the whole, there’s strength in numbers.”

Well, she couldn’t argue with that. 

“People will be furious if they see us cutting,” warned Lily.

“The boys will talk anyone out of annoyance,” Doe said, with a great deal of unwarranted confidence — or so Lily thought. “Or annoy them even more, so they’re too put off to fight back.”

“That’s more like it.”

They kept their heads down until they could safely duck around the boys, who blinked at them in matching expressions of surprise. 

“Pretend we were in the loo or something so no one tells us off for joining the middle of the queue,” Doe said under her breath.

At once they all became relaxed again. How amusing, Lily thought, that any sort of mischief made an ordinary person tense, but was positively a walk in the park for the Marauders. Her nervousness was more striking by contrast to James, whom she found herself next to. He was standing in that very James way of his, hands in his pockets and chin tipped upwards like he was watching something a little bit higher than everyone else was. She tried to make herself more at ease — outwardly, at least.

“You were telling me about your...sister,” Sirius said, “before you went off. To the loo.”

The wizard in front of them glanced over his shoulder, frowning. He didn’t seem pleased to have a group of teenagers behind him.

“Not your best work,” Remus muttered. James and Peter were grinning.

“I’ll say,” said Doe, “considering I’m an only child.”

Sirius barked out a laugh. “How d’you know I wasn’t talking to Evans?”

“Unlikely,” Lily said. It was odd, speaking to Sirius cordially about something that wasn’t related to the Bonneville, but it was even stranger doing so in front of other people. “What would I be telling you about my sister?”

“She’s a Muggle. I’ve never met a Muggle, except for the—”

“You have _not_ met the postman in Holyhead,” Remus interjected. “I know that’s what you were going to say, so don’t bother trying to deny it.”

“What? By what metric have I not met him?”

“Just because you’ve seen him and he’s patted you on the head,” said James, smirking, “doesn’t mean you’ve _met_ him.”

Evidently this meant something to the Marauders, because Peter laughed, while Sirius sighed. Lily and Doe exchanged confused glances.

“As I was saying,” said Sirius, “I’ve never met a Muggle. Maybe I’m curious about her life. Does she have a motorcycle?”

The very thought of Petunia speeding off to work on the Bonneville sent Lily into a peal of laughter. “I can only _dream.”_

The wizard who’d looked back at them earlier did so again, even more sour than before. He muttered something under his breath that sounded awfully like—

“Up _yours,”_ James and Sirius said, their intonation so absolutely identical and devoid of hesitation that Lily was caught between thinking that they had rehearsed such a moment before, and that this could be nothing but a knee-jerk reaction.

She went red even as she glared at the man. “Leave it be, please,” she said through gritted teeth. 

“Keep your voices down,” said Remus to his fellow Marauders. “Not everyone’s here for the same reason as us, and we don’t need to advertise people’s blood statuses.”

Lily crossed her arms over her chest. It was not _everyone’s_ blood status that was at issue; it was hers. “There’s no need to hide anything. I’m not afraid.”

Rather than take offence to her contradicting him, Remus smiled. “I should’ve known you’d say that.”

“Wands out, please, come up to the desk,” called the security wizard ahead of them.

“Ladies first?” Sirius said. Lily rolled her eyes at him as she passed. The rude wizard was already gone.

* * *

_Interlude: Quite Contrary_

_“Hello,_ sunshine,” Mary said, looming over Mundungus, who shrank back in his seat. 

“What’re you doin’ here? You following me, yeah?” He cowered further still, shielding his face as though he couldn’t even bear to look at her. “I said I’d renegotiate in _August,_ it’s only _July—”_

Teetering a little off-balance, she snorted. “Why on earth would I be following you?”

“—give a man a bit of space, wouldn’t you?” Mundungus continued.

There was no other explanation. Mundungus Fletcher was positively mad. Or, well, Mary was a good deal more drunk than she’d thought.

“I’m not following you, Fletcher, but I suppose I should be if I want a single thing out of you.”

For a moment she blinked, glancing around in great confusion. _She_ had not spoken. Geezer had not spoken, and neither had Finn or Terry or any of the pub’s other, older patrons. By process of elimination the wizard who’d said those words was David Townes.

But that didn’t make any sense at all.

Mary turned to look at him so quickly, her head spun. She couldn’t find the words to frame the question she wanted to ask — _what?_ came to mind but was hardly coherent — so she simply watched. If she hadn’t seen his mouth moving, she wouldn’t have believed it was him.

“I reckon we should do this now,” David said, his expression morphing from its characteristic weariness to something more steely. He slid into the only other seat at the table and folded his hands, like a very serious businessman. Or like a mob boss.

One thing was clear — this was the most interesting beginning to a birthday she’d ever had. Mary pulled up a chair and sat down too. Mundungus blinked at her.

“She your muscle, or something?” he said.

Mary sat up very proudly. “Yes.”

“No,” said David, shooting her a reproving frown. “She’s not involved. Look, just forget she’s here. Fact is, you don’t pull your weight, and it’s not worth the ten percent cut. Full stop.”

“How are you sober enough to talk like that?” Mary stage-whispered.

He grimaced. She understood; the appearance of Mundungus Fletcher was enough to clear any head.

“I’ll not negotiate in front of a third party.” Mundungus crossed his arms over his chest. “Can’t a man drink in peace?”

David seemed to mull this over. “Fine. Come next week, we’re meeting up in Diagon Alley and sorting this all out.”

Mary squawked indignantly. “Are you serious, David? He’s having you on. You let him weasel out of your grasp right now—”

“Oi!” said Mundungus.

“—and you’ll never see him again!”

“I’ll see him.” That mulish look came over David again. “Or he won’t get a Knut out of me.”

Mundungus’s eyes went wide and pleading. “Mate, I built the business from the ground up. Cut me a bit of slack.”

“You didn’t build anything! You couldn’t assemble a gingerbread house.”

Mundungus met Mary’s gaze, jerking a thumb at David as if to say _can you believe him?_ “Them gingerbread houses aren’t easy.”

“You can negotiate in front of me,” said Mary firmly, to disabuse him of the notion that she was on his side. “I already know all about your _hempire.”_

“Our what?” David said, choking on a laugh.

In her opinion, that had been a very clever joke and deserved more than a chuckle. “You know. Your high-functioning green machine.” She hummed in thought. “No, that’s just not as good, is it?”

“The first one was better,” Mundungus agreed. Then he froze. “Hang on, how do _you_ know about that?”

Mary snapped her fingers, pointing squarely at his nose. Mundungus went a little cross-eyed. “You just told me.”

“Merlin’s saggy—”

“What,” David interrupted, “are you both on about?”

She rolled her eyes. Honestly, there was no need to act _that_ clueless. Lowering her voice, Mary said, “I know you and Mundungus Fletcher deal marijuana to Hogwarts students.”

 _“What?”_ David said.

“What?” Mundungus croaked, a second too late. “No, you’ve got it all mixed—”

But David did not join him in denying the issue. He rounded on him instead, saying, “Do you really sell weed to students?”

“Well…” Mundungus squirmed. “I don’t reckon that’s any of your—”

“Oh, stop it, David,” said Mary. “It all makes sense. Why you pick up gold in Hogsmeade—” this she directed at Mundungus “—but you couldn’t handle the actual distribution now that you’re not a student, so you need someone on the inside who won’t be fleeced or sweet-talked, and knows his way around figures—”

“What a flattering description of me,” said David.

“—so you’ve teamed up. Obviously.”

“Except, in the model you’ve just described, _I_ would be bargaining with _him_ for a larger cut, not trying to slash his,” David went on. “Not to mention the fact that I do not sell weed! It’s illegal!”

Mary frowned, seeing the logic in this. Mundungus, meanwhile, scoffed. “And what’s so legal about betting?”

Her jaw dropped.

“For fuck’s _sake,_ Fletcher!” David hissed.

“Betting,” Mary said slowly, testing the word out as she tried to wrap her mind around it. _“Betting!_ David, what do people bet on? Interhouse Quidditch?” What a ridiculous notion. She could not bite back a giggle.

“Yes,” David and Mundungus said together.

“Who’s dating who,” Mundungus went on, “who’ll get top marks, who’ll get _bottom_ marks, when ickle Timmy’s missing frog will return, that sort of thing. Everyone’s got opinions. ‘S just self-expression.” He beamed proudly at David, who avoided his gaze. “He’s a clever lad, calculating all them odds and things.”

 _“David. Townes.”_ Mary was just as much shocked as she was delighted.

Evidently David misread her glee, because he ducked his head and sighed. “Please don’t start. I know it’s skeevy, but it’s easy money, and if people _want_ to spend their gold on something so— And I’ve got so much spare time, I might as well spend it doing maths—”

“You dolt, I’m not going to sit around shaming you.” Her grin was manic. “I think it’s hysterical. Who’d have thought?”

“That’s how the teachers haven’t cottoned on,” said Mundungus. “He’s so quiet, like. Flies right under the radar. But he’s got it all down in a little notebook.” He peered at Mary, as if only just recognising her. “Here, you’ve made us a good Galleon in your time.”

She blinked, taken aback. _“Me?”_

David looked supremely uncomfortable. “A lot of students like to speculate about...you. What you’re up to, that sort of thing.”

More like _who._ She frowned. “How do you confirm something?”

“Most of it’s time-sensitive, so the limited time frame makes it easier to avoid deciding a bet based on rumour. Like, you place your money on whether or not Professor Atkinson will realise he’s missed a patch of beard while shaving by next Monday. That's black and white, yes or no.”

“That’s absurd. Do people care about that sort of thing?”

David shrugged. “I don’t make up the _ideas._ It’s just what other people tell me.”

And here Mary had thought David was unassuming and friendless. He probably knew just as much about what happened around the castle as she did — more, even. How wrong she and Chris had been.

As funny as she thought it was, though, Mary was discomfited at the thought that other students had yet another avenue to talk about her. One she’d never even known about. And the unlikely friend she’d made on holiday, thinking she could have an entirely blank slate with him, knew everything that other people thought about her. 

David’s hand closed over her shoulder, making her jump. He quickly withdrew it. “You all right?”

Through the haze of alcohol and the churning mixed feelings in her stomach, she realised that she was. More importantly, she had a way to be even _better._

“I’m glad I’m at the negotiating table,” Mary said after a long moment. “I want a cut too.”

“Come off it,” Mundungus said indignantly. “A school gossip like you? You’d never keep your mouth shut, not to mention _everyone_ would find out if you were taking bets!”

She glared at him. “A school gossip, _me,_ and this coming from the man who’s running an underground gambling ring off a sixteen-year-old’s maths prowess?” Mary glanced between them, prepared to argue her case further still.

“Fine,” David said, not missing a beat. “You’re in. For two percent you get to be a silent observer. For six you’re collecting information.”

She straightened and turned the full force of her glare upon him. “Ten. I’ve six years of information-collecting experience at Hogwarts.”

He didn’t flinch. “Six.”

“Nine.”

“Six.”

“Eight, and if you try to lowball me again I will find a post office and owl McGonagall right now.”

Adrenaline brought back the rush of the six drinks she’d had. Mary’s vision, blurry and warm as it was, swam a little as she stared David down. He resembled his mother more than Chris did, with that reddish tinge to his hair. Where her angular features made her look ethereal, on David they were softened to normalcy. 

He wasn’t beautiful like Galina Townes, nor did he have Chris’s boyish charm. There was a semipermanent divot of worry between his brows. Had Mary passed him in a castle corridor — and surely she had at some point — the only thought he might have inspired in her would have been _what does that boy look so stressed about?_

In that moment she knew _she_ was the current cause of that little dimple. _Good,_ Mary thought. 

“Eight,” David agreed finally.

Mary sat back, a satisfied smile spreading across her face. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“We’ll talk about it when we’re back at school. How it all works, I mean. And you’re not handling any of the bets about yourself.”

“I want it in writing,” Mary said.

“Come on. I’m not going to swindle you.”

“What’s _my_ cut?” Mundungus said, looking hopeful.

“Five,” David and Mary said in unison. 

“Come off it!”

They shared a round of drinks to celebrate the deal — Mary’s words — though David drank a Butterbeer and Mundungus looked less than pleased the entire time. The wobble the night had hit earlier — _a lot of students like to speculate about you_ — had passed by. She would remake herself for this last year at Hogwarts. She would _learn_ things, instead of simply doing things. 

“I think that’s it for me,” David said, the moment his mug was empty. He glanced at Mary, a little nervously. 

“I’ll come with you,” she declared. His nervousness gave way to relief. 

Mary covered their tab, having exchanged Muggle money for Galleons earlier in the week. David tried to protest this; Mundungus kept happily silent. Bidding One-Eyed Orla and the others goodbye, the two of them stumbled out into the street once more. 

The music and laughter from the Muggle pub had died down over the hours they’d been in Portree’s Pride. A drunken straggler stumbled down the pavement, giving David and Mary an expression of bleary confusion. She realised that to Muggle eyes they looked as though they’d just come out of the garden.

“Right, to bed,” Mary mumbled, mostly to herself, and started off down the street.

David snagged her elbow. “Wrong direction.” He steered her around, ignoring her complaints, and they ambled closer to the loch’s edge, soon leaving the village proper for the collection of holiday cottages in which Mary and Shannon were staying. 

Neither of them spoke at first. Mary’s gaze was trained on the water, the swollen moon’s reflection wavering on its surface. Loch Portree was not a proper lake but an inlet, a sliver of the Atlantic Ocean — or was it the Norwegian Sea? — prodding into the Hebrides like a finger. She wanted to reach out in return, recreate the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling. From this angle, though, you could not make out that the lake was a part of that much bigger whole. Just that it was restless, waves lapping at the shore even when the air was still.

“I’m sorry,” said David, his voice quiet.

She didn’t need to ask what he was apologising for. “I’m sick of people forming their own outlandish opinions about me, you know. Never mind that it’s my fault they do it—” She’d relished being talked about, hadn’t she? But some things were strictly off-limits. _Mulciber;_ the name passed like a ghost through her mind.

“Don’t you wish people could see you as you _are?”_ Mary turned to look at him at last. 

The furrow in his forehead cleared, and he smiled. “Of course I do. What do you think all that was about, back at the pub?”

She wasn’t sure if he meant going to the pub with her, or the business with Mundungus Fletcher. Either way, she thought she understood. It was about being something other than what you were, or what you appeared to be. Only, David’s problem was that he was a flimsy cutout of other people’s expectations, all the truth of him so carefully hidden away, and Mary’s was that other people’s expectations had created a thousand different versions of her.

“If you weren’t a Hufflepuff,” she said, “you ought to have been in Slytherin, I reckon.”

David chuckled. “This coming from a Gryffindor?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I _might_ consider associating with you, if you were.”

“That’s if _I_ would associate with _you.”_

Mary arched an eyebrow. “Watch it, or I’ll push you into the lake.”

He smiled wide. “You can’t even walk in a straight line, Mary.”

She scoffed, looking down at her feet. “That’s not— Oh. You’re right.”

David burst into laughter.

As they approached the Macdonalds’ cottage, Mary said, “If you see Shanny coming out of Chris’s bedroom tomorrow, don’t bloody tell me about it.” There was no heat to the words, just the old-fashioned disgust of any teenager confronted with the reality of a relative’s sex life.

David shuddered. “So long as you don’t tell me if it’s the other way around.”

“Deal.”

She stopped at the door. “You’re further down, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. So...goodnight, I suppose.” He hesitated, then took a deep breath. “Sorry about...Chris.”

Mary winced. “Please, don’t. I’ve already had this conversation with Shannon, and that’s one too many times for one holiday. _You’ve_ got nothing to apologise for. And really, neither does he.”

David didn’t look convinced. “You’re sure?”

“Sure as eggs. There are no feelings involved there.” She shuddered. “No offence. Go on, it’s _so_ past your bedtime.”

At that he smiled again, backing away. “Sod off. Oh — and, er, happy birthday.”

Mary snorted. _“Sod off,_ he says.” As if it were an afterthought, she called, “Thank you.” 

David waved as he disappeared into the night. 

* * *

_ii. Recess_

“We’re not losing our seats to the lunch crowd,” Doe said, scowling at the people around them as if preparing to fight for their spots already.

“Surprisingly, I’m with her on this,” said Sirius. “Not when it’s going to get good n—” Doe shoved him. “I’m not _wrong,_ am I? The interesting bit’s coming up!”

He was not wrong, even if the girls took issue with his diction. Thus far the Wizengamot had heard from witnesses to Alistair Longbottom’s Hogsmeade trips: a fidgeting Madam Rosmerta, several other Hogsmeade employees, one of his ICW colleagues. The worst of all these had been a dignified, clench-jawed Alice St. Martin, who nevertheless looked like she might cry at any moment. 

The elderly Wizengamot witch who’d been asking questions alongside Barty Crouch had cajoled and prodded her for ten minutes. But Alice’s only response to every question was “I can’t recall.” At last, the witch had snapped, “You will be held in contempt of court, Miss St. Martin!” 

Alice had looked straight ahead, and said, “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful, Madam Burke.”

After some discussion the court had agreed upon a fine for Alice’s contempt: one hundred Galleons. Her expression did not shift. 

“If we can move this circus along,” the barrister representing Mr. Longbottom had said, shooting Crouch a baleful look.

At every pause in the proceedings James’s eye had strayed to where the Longbottoms sat, on the lowest level of the enormous audience chamber — Augusta and Frank, along with some other relatives. Mrs. Longbottom was severe as ever, straight-backed and unflinching. Frank, to put it politely, had seen better days. Dark smudges circled his eyes, and his mouth was downturned almost cartoonishly. He had stared at the ground for the entire duration of Alice’s testimony.

But after the midday recess Alistair Longbottom would finally take the stand. It was clear that this was why most of the audience had come; some had tried to trickle out after the doors had shut upon realising the accused was not in the courtroom yet. 

“Don’t _joke_ about it,” Doe was saying. “I can’t even imagine what Dementors do to a person…”

“Do you think he’ll be...ill, or something?” Peter looked uneasy at the thought.

“It’s been ten days,” Remus said, frowning. “That can’t be a walk in the park.”

“Poor Frank,” murmured Lily. “And his poor mother. What an ordeal this must be for both of them.”

“Can’t be good for a future Auror’s career, can it?” Sirius said. 

“Probably not,” said James slowly. “I don’t think Alice did herself any favours just then either. At least Prewett made a good show out of how tedious Burke was getting.” 

The barrister’s shock of red hair made him easily recognisable; at present he was speaking to Frank, too far below where James and the others sat to be heard. Beside him was the grizzled veteran Auror Alastor Moody; idly James wondered why Moody, ostensibly on the Ministry’s side of things, would be speaking to the defendant’s family.

“In any case,” Sirius went on, “we haven’t addressed the issue of lunch.”

“The Leaky Cauldron isn’t far,” began Remus uncertainly.

“What if they don’t let us all back in?” Peter said.

“Merlin, I hadn’t thought of that. But there’s no getting around that issue, is there?”

“I’ll go,” James said, standing. “I can talk my way past the security desk if I need to. Just tell me what I ought to bring back, and we can eat in shifts in the corridor.” 

No one could argue with that. 

“I’ll go with you,” said Lily, at the same time Sirius said, “All _right,_ I’ll come.”

They blinked at each other, both comically surprised. 

“We can all go,” said James. “More hands, right? Then I can hear how the motorcycle’s going.”

Lily and Sirius exchanged glances that James could not read. _That_ felt odd, but he took it as a hopeful sign. 

“Sure, that’s a good idea,” Remus said, in a voice that made it clear — to the Marauders at least — that he thought it was a horrible idea. 

“It’ll be fine,” said Sirius breezily. 

“That’s what he said,” Doe said, frowning. 

Lily stood, as did Sirius, and the trio left the courtroom along with the streams of people who had the same idea. The lifts were packed; it took far longer to return to the Atrium, surrounded by nonplussed Ministry employees, than it had to come down the courtroom in the orderly lines of that morning. 

As they exited the lifts at last, the cool voice announcing that they were on the Atrium level, Lily said, “How did you know that the courtrooms expand?”

The question took James by surprise, not least because they had been walking in perfect silence until then. 

“His mum was a barrister,” said Sirius. “Euphemia de Sousa, _esquire.”_ He said the last word with relish. 

“I didn’t know that,” Lily said, her eyes alight with interest. 

“Yeah, she was one of the first witches to present a case to the full Wizengamot,” said James with great pride. “You’d think she’d talk about that all the time, but she gets funnily shy about it.” It was perhaps the only situation in which Euphemia Potter could be described as _shy._ “Although, it’s how my parents met, so she likes to discuss that bit.”

“What was the case?”

“Something about advertisements being on the front page of the _Prophet._ A broom company was suing. Mum was for the _Prophet,_ see, and she got a load of business owners to testify on the paper’s behalf, prove they weren’t biased specifically against brooms or something similarly idiotic.”

“And your father was one of them, and the rest is history?” Lily said. 

“Well, no,” said James, drawing the word out. He hadn’t had an attentive audience for this story in quite some time, and he was enjoying it. “Dad turned her down, actually.”

“He didn’t!” Lily said. 

“Did,” Sirius confirmed. “Granddad Potter was on the Wizengamot, and Monty didn’t exactly want to be testifying in front of him. No matter the reason.”

“What happened, then?” 

But before James could answer, they’d come to the front of the long queues snaking out from the Atrium’s many fireplaces. 

“Floo to the Cauldron, yeah?” he said, withdrawing a pouch from his pocket. Once they each had some Floo powder, they split into three different queues, and James lost track of both Lily and Sirius.

“Pity it’s not a Saturday,” said Lily when all three of them had reunited in the bustling Leaky Cauldron. “We could sit here for ten minutes and count it as our weekly tag lunch.” She squinted suspiciously at the two of them. “I don’t have to worry about either of you getting me right now, do I?”

“Temporary truce,” James vowed solemnly, tracing a cross over his heart.

Sirius sighed. “Some of us are out of the bloody game.” 

She looked taken aback. “Really? Who got _you_ out?”

“Dorcas. She’s vicious, she is.” Sirius shivered. “Tagged Wormtail and I out back to back.”

James laughed. “I still can’t believe Pete didn’t take you out when he had the chance.”

“Friendship means something to _some_ people. Not _Dorcas Walker,_ though.”

“Two things,” Lily said, “one, I haven’t forgotten that you left me hanging mid-story, and two, this wait is going to be too long and I vote that we find the Horizont Alley chippy man instead.”

James and Sirius whistled at once. 

“What did I say?” said Lily, half-laughing.

“The chippy man’s _mobile,_ Evans. His cart travels faster than any broom.” Nevertheless James wove through the crowd, aiming for the entrance into Diagon Alley. However long he could extend this jaunt, he would — the better to prepare himself for Alistair Longbottom taking the stand.

“You’re telling me the two of you can’t catch him?” said Lily, one eyebrow raised.

“Normally we do not turn down challenges,” James said, “but I know better than to sign up for a lost cause. That owl’s left the nest.”

She was looking at him like she didn’t believe him. James glanced at Sirius for support; he put up his hands in surrender. “He’s not lying.”

“It takes high-level espionage to catch the chippy man,” James continued, dodging a pair of chattering witches with shopping bags in hand. “Given all that, I don’t think we’re ready for it today.”

“We’d have to split up,” said Sirius. “Take all three alleys. I reckon that’s you or me in Knockturn, mate, we couldn’t leave Evans there.”

“Definitely not,” James agreed.

He realised that Lily had drifted away from them, and stopped in the middle of the street trying to spot her once more. She was waving at a pudgy wizard in front of Flourish and Blott’s.

“What the hell is she doing?” said Sirius.

“If you think _I_ know…”

“Excuse me!” Lily could be heard shouting. “Where’s the chippy man?”

The wizard said something in response. Lily waded through the crowd back towards them, wearing a wide, triumphant smile.

“It’s hard not to like her,” Sirius said suddenly, grimacing at the admission.

James’s answering laugh was sharp, but not bitter. He knew that feeling well, and he didn’t have to tell Sirius _I told you so._ By the look on his friend’s face, he was already thinking it.

“I heard it takes high-level espionage to catch the chippy man,” Lily said, breathless with elation. 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t brag,” said Sirius. “Where is he?”

The chippy cart, with its worn wheels and green awning, was parked halfway down Diagon Alley, in front of Eeylops — just as the wizard had said. All three of them had their hands full with the six servings they were to carry back. Lily juggled hers and Dorcas’s carefully as Sirius counted out Sickles for the vendor. He had insisted on paying, as he was a “working man” and “Evans doesn’t get paid in wizard currency.” Chivalry had never charmed Lily overmuch, but she was touched by this small gesture anyway. Perhaps Sirius really was regretting his treatment of her over the past few months.

She and James had hung back in a little pocket of space beside the cart. She turned to him, squinting against the August sun, and said, “So, your parents.”

James grinned. “Couldn’t let me leave you hanging, yeah?”

“Never.”

“Well, he refused to testify, like I said, despite Mum’s most persuasive tactics. But he sat in on the trial anyway, because he was intrigued.” James raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “And then Mum talked circles around the questioners, all this stuff about editorial responsibility, and the power of a free press, and not brainwashing the populace to think in terms of what gold could buy.”

“Wow,” said Lily, trying to match the formidable woman she’d seen in the Hospital Wing to the story and finding it was a job easily accomplished. It wasn’t just the story that compelled her — it was the animation with which James told it, gesturing wildly, eyes bright, such an obvious believer in his own parents’ romance that it was hard not to do the same. “Then your dad fell for her, obviously.”

“Don’t rush me,” James chided.

“Well, I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t go so slowly—”

 _“Anyway,_ after court had adjourned that first day, Dad went up to her outside the courtroom and reintroduced himself. Mum was all, ‘Yeah, I remember you, I’ve got a job to do.’”

Lily laughed. 

“Then Dad proposed.”

She gasped, making as if to clap a hand over her mouth before she remembered she was holding two bags of chips. “He didn’t! With a ring, and everything?”

He grinned, obviously pleased at her reaction. “Nah, he apologised for not bringing one. And then he apologised for not being able to speak with her family, since that was proper and all. She told him that would’ve been hard anyway, as her parents were in India.”

“Sorry, was _that_ her immediate response to his proposal?” Lily spluttered. “A comment about her parents being too far away to confer with beforehand?”

He laughed. “Shit, I guess so. He said he could owl them, or better yet, Portkey there. _She_ said she hadn’t met any of his family either. So he waved over his own dad—”

“No!”

“—yeah, he waved over his dad and went, and I am quoting, ‘Father, this is the witch I plan to marry.’”

Lily was laughing so hard, she thought she might tip out half of Doe’s chips. “And then what did your mum say?” 

“She said—” James paused, relishing the moment “—’I’m glad you learned from the first time you turned me down.’ And then they were engaged.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Lily, once she’d recovered control of her own voice. “If it weren’t so specific, I’d suspect you were making it up.”

“What can I say? The 1920s were a strange time.”

She cocked her head, her laughter fading into a frown as she tried to work out the numbers. “That can’t be right.”

“Correcting me about my own parents’ ages? Rude, Evans. They just celebrated their fiftieth anniversary, I wouldn’t forget _that.”_

“But that means your parents are—” She broke off, realising she’d been about to say _old,_ which would have been unthinkably rude. Lily was certain she was red as a tomato. “I mean— That’s—”

“It’s all right, you can say they're old.” He looked more smug than ever. “It’s not as though they aren’t aware.”

“But — I saw your parents! In the Hospital Wing, I mean, and they didn’t look… Why, they must be at least seventy!”

He waved a bag of chips at her. “I can confirm that. At least seventy.”

As a rule James was never ashamed, Lily knew, so it made sense that he didn’t seem in the least bothered by her flubbing. But that made him not exactly a fair metric to judge by. She paused to choose her next words very carefully.

“They’ve aged really elegantly,” was what she settled for, but James still laughed.

“I’ll be sure to let them know.”

Before Lily could tell him he should not, under any circumstances, sudden seriousness swept away his good cheer. She didn’t have to ask what had happened, as it turned out. He offered up an explanation himself.

“I’ve just realised, I’ll get to tell that story again tonight,” James said, looking quite dazed at the prospect.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Marissa’s having dinner with us. Isn’t that typical meet the parents fodder?”

Lily felt a twinge of envy. He would be sitting down to a meal with his parents and the charming, likeable former Head Girl, while she would be entertaining boorish Vernon Dursley and staving off Petunia’s breakdowns. 

“Well, I wouldn’t know,” she said. “Dex didn’t get to meet my mum.” 

James gave a sympathetic grimace. “Would you have liked him to?”

“All said and done, I did catch him snogging Cecily Sprucklin on the train back from Hogwarts…”

His hazel eyes went wide behind his spectacles. _“Blimey.”_

She was no more distraught repeating it now than she had been seeing it in June. But that didn’t mean she wanted to dwell upon it. Lily smiled and shrugged to signify that that was that.

“I think that’s a no on meeting your mum, then,” said James.

“Fucking Knuts!” Sirius appeared between them, more chip bags in hand. “They’re such a bitch to count out. Who made them so _small?”_

Lily seized upon this nugget. “The better to squeeze more into peasants’ pockets.” 

Sirius laughed, leading the way back to the Leaky Cauldron. James gestured for Lily to follow; she squeezed through the crowd in the wake of Sirius’s none-too-gentle shoves, and marvelled at his remorselessness. She could be glad for it, when it was not directed at her.

Presently she glanced over her shoulder at James. “I’m glad things are all right. Between you and Marissa, I mean.”

Did he hesitate ever so slightly before responding? “Yeah, me too.”

They ducked into the pub. Sirius, Lily saw, had stopped short right in front of the fire. 

“No free hands for the Floo powder,” he said by way of explanation.

“Ah, fuck,” said James. 

Doe could see sunflower-yellow shirts all across the audience as people filtered back to their seats. She was too tightly-wound to feel hungry, too nervous to do anything but bounce in her seat and tune out Remus and Peter’s conversation. She realised she was looking for someone. 

Without stopping to question her instinct, she unhooked one button on her dungarees and let the flap fall open, exposing the words splashed across her chest.

“Wh-What are you doing?” said Peter, catching sight of her. 

Remus regarded her with more curiosity than confusion. “Do you know someone in Unity and Equality, then? I didn’t think they sold those.”

They did not, Doe began to say, but just then someone dropped into the empty space beside her.

She swivelled around. “Sorry, that seat’s taken—”

“I’ll only be a minute.” Ruth Walker wore the same U&E shirt, her braids gathered back into a knot. Her gaze was searching, as if she were checking Doe for damages.

Doe sighed, slumping a little. “Mum, you can’t make me—”

“Leave. I know.” Her mother sighed. “It was wrong of me to try and stop you in the first place.” She reached out, hesitant. When Doe did not resist, her mother squeezed her shoulder. “I’m sorry. It makes me proud to see you wearing this, you know.”

Doe glanced down at her shirt, half-smiling. “It’s— You should have _told_ me.” A sudden glut of tears formed in her throat. “It makes _me_ proud to see you do what you do.”

Ruth laughed, tears glittering in her eyes. “Look at you. Listening to underground radio stations, reading and thinking and arguing. That’s why we do all of this, my love.”

“So your kids can be rebels?” 

Her mother clicked her tongue. “So long as they’ve got a cause.” With one last squeeze, she rose to her feet. “I’ll see you afterwards. Be careful.”

“I always am,” Doe promised.

* * *

_iii. Interrogation_

The courtroom fell deathly silent as the door in the dock creaked open. A Hit Wizard entered first; the audience held its breath. Then the Hit Wizard moved out of the way, and Alistair Longbottom made his way to the defendant’s chair.

Lily exhaled with everyone else, horror knotting up her insides. She had seen photos of him in the _Prophet_ over the past few weeks, and so she had expected a slightly more haggard version of that man. The reality was far worse.

Mr. Longbottom was freshly shaven, and his hair had been combed in preparation for court. That could not compensate for the purple-blue bruises around his eyes, the sunken hollowness in his cheeks, and the frailty in how he carried himself, as if he might shatter at any moment. He lowered himself into the chair with a wince, like a man twice his age. When he looked up, scanning the audience, Lily shivered at the dull exhaustion in his gaze.

“Jesus Christ,” Sirius whispered.

Agnes Burke’s gavel sent a bang echoing through the courtroom. “Order to this session of the Wizengamot…”

As the presiding questioners were recognised, Doe leaned closer to Lily. “He can’t have done it,” she said, her voice laced with urgency. _“Look_ at him; is that the face of a Death Eater?”

Mr. Longbottom appeared tired enough to collapse then and there. But that was no indication of guilt… 

“I don’t know,” Lily said. “I don’t know him…”

“Can they really be everywhere? Where we least expect it, I mean?” Doe sounded absolutely stricken. Lily wondered if she had not considered Alistair Longbottom’s guilt until that very moment.

She herself thought, fleetingly and painfully, of Severus. “Maybe,” she whispered.

“...full, assembled court,” Agnes Burke intoned. “Let’s begin.”

“Madam Burke, and esteemed members of the Wizengamot!” The voice came not from the defendant’s barrister, but somewhere in the audience. Heads turned this way and that.

“Oh, God,” Doe said.

The person who’d spoken stood. She wore the same yellow shirt as Doe. But that was not the only thing they had in common.

Lily locked eyes with her friend. “Is that—?”

“Oh, _God,”_ Doe said again.

“Sit down, or you will be held in contempt,” Agnes Burke said, hardly looking up.

Doe’s mother remained standing. “My name is Ruth Walker, and I stand for unity and equality. We ask the Wizengamot to return us our right to peaceful protest.”

Agnes Burke’s sigh, magically amplified, reverberated through the chamber. “Miss Walker, _sit_ down, or you will be held—”

“My name is Joe Walker, and I stand for unity and equality.” Doe’s father rose too, also in yellow.

“My name is Arlyn Doge,” called another witch, “and I stand for unity and equality!”

Barty Crouch beckoned the clump of Aurors on the courtroom floor towards him. “Silence in the court, if you will,” he said, but the deluge had begun.

“My name is Winifred Hayes—” “—Priam Weatherby—” “—Olive McKinnon—” Soon the names overlapped so Lily could not make them out at all. 

“Merlin,” she said, and she did not have to whisper because the noise in the courtroom had risen to an uproar.

Beside her, Doe had leapt to her feet too, adding her voice to the chorus. She extended a hand to Lily, who stared at it uncomprehendingly.

“Come on, Lil,” Doe said.

She entwined her fingers with Doe’s, standing up. “My name is Lily Evans,” she said, and she didn’t think anyone else could hear her, but it didn’t matter. “And I stand for unity and equality!”

All around them were more raised voices, more yellow shirts; the Marauders were standing too, hands cupped around their mouths so they would be louder still. Lily felt buoyant, as if she might float away any minute. At the same time there was a tightness in her chest, an emotion both powerfully warm and thick with fear. This was _real._ This was happening.

Until it wasn’t.

_“SILENCIO!”_

Lily’s voice died in her throat. She realised, since she had the time and quiet to think it, that Crouch _had_ to have shouted the spell, because it would not have been powerful enough nonverbally. Even so his stern face was strained and red with effort, his wand arm trembling. He let out a breath, and it was the loudest sound in the room.

“Protesters will be escorted out of the room and off Ministry premises,” Crouch said briskly. “Your names will be collected on your way out — and you will all be fined.”

The sentence fell like a stone into the stillness. Some of the standing audience members sank back onto the benches. _Do we stay?_ Lily started to say, but the words would not take shape. She scrabbled for her wand, pointing it at her own throat, and willed the countercharm to work. 

“Are we going?” she croaked, just as Remus said, “We’re staying.”

The other five looked to him. For once Remus did not shrink back from the attention. “I want to hear Alistair Longbottom out.”

“Me too,” said James. He glanced at Lily and Doe. “If you want to go—”

“I’ll stay.” On the courtroom floor, Alistair Longbottom had not so much as twitched through the demonstration. Guilty or not, Lily thought, a man to whom such damage had been done ought to be borne witness to. She shook Doe’s arm gently. 

“I—” Doe seemed unable to form words, though she had lifted the charm on herself as well.

“Listen, Walker,” Sirius said bluntly, “a protest and a contempt fine on a day Crouch himself presided over a court hearing won’t look great on an Auror application. Choose _now.”_

He meant well, Lily knew, but her friend only seemed to seize up with fear. She regretted making her preference known so quickly. If Doe needed her to leave as well—

“You’re right,” said Doe slowly. “We ought to stay.”

“Well, first of all—” James flicked his wand in her direction, and her conspicuously bright T-shirt became a muddy brown. The curly lettering on it had vanished entirely. 

“Oh, thank you— _Brown?”_

He shrugged. “Puddlemere.”

Doe huffed, but sat back down; the others followed suit. It was a good ten minutes before anything else could happen, as the other protesters were led away by MLEP officers. The courtroom was left at half capacity — astonishing, then, that so many audience members had either planned to protest or wound up deciding to. Heart still racing, Lily cast her gaze towards the barrister, Fabian Prewett, as the courtroom doors slammed shut. 

He did not look worried, she noticed. He must have had some path to clearing his client’s name...or did all lawyers need excellent poker faces anyway? 

Agnes Burke banged her gavel again. “Enter the witness box, please, and state your name for the record,” she growled.

Watching Mr. Longbottom move was just as painful as before. After some discussion, Prewett convinced the Wizengamot to allow him a chair inside the witness box.

“Mr. Longbottom, tell us in your own words what you did on Saturday, April sixteenth, in the village of Hogsmeade.” Madam Burke said.

He lifted his head slowly. “I— went to Hogsmeade to meet my son Frank. In the Three Broomsticks. My son, and his girlfriend…” His strength seemed to flag; Prewett nodded encouragement. With another deep breath, he continued. “I had a drink in the pub—”

“What did you drink?” Crouch said sharply.

“Butterbeer,” Mr. Longbottom croaked. 

“No Firewhisky?” said Madam Burke, leaning forward.

“Butterbeer.”

Crouch scribbled something down. “Carry on, Mr. Longbottom.”

“I...left the pub sometime later, past noon, I think… I wanted to stop by Scrivenshaft’s, you see; my wife wanted a stationery set.” He stopped again, seemingly unmoored by the thought of his family. The auburn-haired woman beside Frank Longbottom had a hand pressed to her mouth.

“And then?” Crouch prodded.

“I… don’t remember.” Alistair Longbottom blinked helplessly, and Lily’s heart squeezed with pity. “I don’t remember what happened that day.”

“You don’t remember seeing your son?” said Madam Burke impatiently. “You just told us you did.”

“I don’t remember,” said Mr. Longbottom once more.

“I moved this court to allow Mr. Longbottom to be held here at the Ministry,” Prewett jumped in, “but he was transported to Azkaban anyway—”

“Mr. Prewett, the defendant is accused of a serious crime—” Madam Burke said.

“—hardly a flight risk, and given health concerns—”

“Mr. Prewett, you will forgive the Wizengamot for judging that a wizard accused of plotting against the Ministry,” Madam Burke said, her voice rising to a shout, “should not be held _within the Ministry!”_

The barrister fell silent for a moment. “It is clear, I think, that the Dementors have had an adverse effect on Mr. Longbottom’s ability to—”

“Tell the truth?” Crouch finished. “We can make that process easier for him, Mr. Prewett. Motion to administer Veritaserum.”

Madam Burke straightened, triumphant. “All in favour?”

There was a loud chorus of ayes.

“They’re going to do it,” Doe whispered.

“All against?”

Lily counted precisely six nays. 

An aide carried a vial up to the witness box. Mr. Longbottom did not seem to understand what he was expected to do with it.

“Administer it,” said Madam Burke, her voice hard as flint.

“Please allow the defendant to preserve some dignity, Madam Burke,” another Wizengamot member said coldly. “He is not guilty of anything yet.”

Prewett was permitted to administer the potion at last, with Alastor Moody hovering beside him. 

“It’s done,” Moody said, stepping back. Prewett wore a distasteful grimace as he nodded assent.

“State your name for the record, please, Mr. Longbottom.” Crouch was peering very closely at the witness box.

So too was the rest of the audience chamber. It was impossible not to notice the change that had come over the wizard. His listlessness had become a kind of loose-limbed relaxation — only, he didn’t seem _comfortable,_ he seemed hypnotised. Lily felt ill.

“Alistair Guozhi Longbottom,” came the response, no less of a croak. But Mr. Longbottom’s haggard, worn tone was now flat and emotionless.

“Proceed,” Crouch said, apparently satisfied that the Veritaserum had taken effect.

“Tell the court what you were doing in Hogsmeade, on the sixteenth of April,” commanded Madam Burke.

“I was in Hogsmeade to see my son and his girlfriend. I met them at the Three Broomsticks.”

Crouch said, “Did you meet anyone else at the Three Broomsticks? Did anyone pass you a package?”

“No. I spoke only to my son, his girlfriend, and Madam Rosmerta.”

“And did you go from the pub back to your home?”

“No. I went to Scrivenshaft’s to make a purchase.”

“What was the purchase?”

“A stationery—”

“We can dispense with this formality,” Madam Burke snapped. “Mr. Longbottom, did you conspire to plant cursed objects in the Ministry?”

There was only a half-second of silence before Mr. Longbottom answered, but it seemed to stretch on forever. And then—

“No.”

Beside Lily, Doe gasped. She was not the only one; the courtroom was full of murmurs. Madam Burke banged her gavel, scowling.

“Do you remember bringing cursed items into the Ministry?” said Madam Burke urgently. “Show him the Sneakoscope, Moody.”

The Auror limped to the evidence table, retrieving a small item, and went up to the witness box.

“Do you remember this object, Mr. Longbottom?” Madam Burke said.

“No.”

“Do you _know_ what it is?” Both contempt and desperation had mixed in the witch’s voice.

“A Sneakoscope.”

As if on cue, the item emitted an earsplitting whistle, bouncing right out of Moody’s hand. He swore, whipping out his wand to freeze it in place.

“See!” Madam Burke pointed an accusatory finger at Mr. Longbottom. “He’s hiding something — the device proves it!”

Prewett sprang back to life with a fury. “He has answered your questions, Madam Burke, while under the influence of the strongest truth potion known to wizardkind. Quite clearly he has no memory of participating in this so-called conspiracy, and I suppose it didn’t occur to any of the brilliant minds seated in this room that the very same compulsion objects he’s been accused of smuggling may have been used to force the defendant into committing certain acts!”

“He _believes_ he does not remember,” corrected another Wizengamot member. “That’s not to say it didn’t happen, Mr. Prewett.”

“You cannot sentence a man on supposition!” Prewett roared.

“Show him the quills,” urged Madam Burke. “The cursed ones, show them to him! Perhaps he will recognise them!”

The Sneakoscope began to shriek once more. Lily’s heart was pounding against her ribs; something in her tensed in anticipation. Moody had gone very, very still.

And then the box of cursed quills soared into the air, upending itself. The purple feathers fluttered there, held aloft for a split second, before they multiplied— The ceiling was blotted out by the thicket they formed. 

_“Protego maxima!”_ Moody shouted, and a shimmering shield pressed up against the menacing canopy of feathers. “What are you all waiting for? _Get out!”_

The courtroom’s walls morphed into dozens and dozens of doors. They flew open all at once, and the audience scrambled for them without semblance of order or calm. 

Lily could not pinpoint the moment at which she had jumped up and started running. But suddenly she and Doe were clambering over benches, hand in hand, with Doe screaming, “The one straight ahead—”

A heavyset wizard slammed into them, knocking the girls off their feet. Lily’s head thunked into the stone floor. By sheer force of will, she did not blink out of consciousness, though all sound had turned tinny and the world spun round and round in her vision… 

Someone was pulling her off the ground, half-dragging, half-carrying her to a door. But Doe had let go of her hand...what if Doe needed her? Lily tried to resist.

“—stop _hitting_ me, would you?” James was saying. “Merlin, let’s just get to the exit and then we can figure out what happens next—”

“My head,” Lily managed. “I hit it when I—”

He swore. “We’ll get to the Atrium and we’ll Floo straight to St. Mungo’s,” he promised.

They were in a corridor, but not one she recognised. There was no sign of the lifts. If only, Lily thought, Mrs. Potter had thought to convey the courtrooms’ other architectural quirks to James…

Other audience members had emerged into the same corridor, along with formally-robed Wizengamot members. How had they arrived too?

“Security feature!” one of the Wizengamot members was shouting. “Please, stay calm, we ought to be let towards the lift banks momentarily—”

A door opened up in the far wall, and the crowd immediately ran for it. 

“I can stand,” Lily said through gritted teeth, realising she had been slumped against James this entire time.

“No, you can’t,” he shot back. “You’re concussed.”

“I can—”

He had one arm wrapped around her waist, and he used it to steer them towards the door, not hurrying in the slightest. Lily had no idea how they made it to the lifts, nor how long it took — just that they were lurching into motion, higher and higher…

“Level Two,” the lift announced, “Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

“What?” James said loudly. He wasn’t the only one.

“Please exit the lift,” the lift said.

“They’re holding us,” Lily mumbled. She didn't think she had the energy to speak at a higher volume. She was so, _so_ tired...

James peered down at her. “Did you say something?”

“They’re holding us — don’t you see? Someone in that room had to have set off the quills…”

Slow horror dawned on his face. Lily felt her eyelids drifting shut…

“Oi, eyes open.” He jostled her to punctuate his point.

“I’m awake,” she said, forcing herself to obey. “We might as well leave the lift.” She half-smiled, or at least tried to. “Neither of us will be making our supper engagements, I expect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay geez louise that was long! this chapter morphed into a monster, and is setting up some very very fun stuff. if i may say so, my brain has done it this weekend. my motorbike knowledge is minimal so apologies if i messed up on the bonneville, and my knowledge of the british legal system is limited to vague memories of broadchurch season two, so sorry for any mistakes on that front as well. tell me what you enjoyed, and your predictions for the future! as always, chapter playlist is on tumblr.
> 
> speaking of which, sorry/thank you to all who followed my weird ordeal on that hellsite over the past week. just to confirm, i've regained control of @thequibblah, and that's where i am for the time being. for those of you who don't follow me on there, i've been doing a fun thing where people put words in my askbox and i quote a line they appear in within the upcoming chapter. so if you're interested, check it out/follow along next week.
> 
> as i said in the top note, come together has made it to the second round of voting for the jily awards! i'm ridiculously flattered that you would vote for this baby in a category as wide and star-studded as best multi-chap, and can only humbly request that you consider doing so again before next saturday eastern time.
> 
> the next chapter is titled "quill and ink" (oooh) and i can promise a long-awaited jily plot point! in the meantime, have comments will speedwrite. thank you sm for reading <3
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	32. Quill and Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Frank's dad, an ICW delegate, is caught smuggling cursed objects into the Ministry and is arrested. Doe hears that the trial is open to the public, and that people protesting a Wizengamot bill restricting peaceful protest and assembly will be attending. She gets Lily to go with her, and the Marauders tag along. Once at the Ministry, the six partake in the protest, but things go awry when the cursed quills brought along as evidence are released to fill the room. The gang flees and is separated, trapped in the Ministry.
> 
> NOW: Lily and James get a crash course in communication. Doe, Sirius, Remus, and Peter bear witness to a standoff. Letters arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: this is the fic's longest chapter ever by a wide, wide margin. So...gather round, pals, and take your time. Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Today is the Last Day (!) to [vote for Come Together in the second round of this year's Jily Awards](https://jilyawards2020.tumblr.com/post/636774864784687104/round-2-of-voting-is-open) for fave multichap. Massively honoured to have made it to the second round, so thank you to all who voted <33

_Prelude: Unity_

On Friday, August fifth, Dorcas Walker was doing the washing. It was never a good sign when she had to wash her clothes in the morning, because it meant she had miscalculated the number of clean knickers she had left and put it off until the last possible moment. 

When her parents caught her at it — as they had multiple times so far over the holidays — they inevitably told her off. House-elf life at Hogwarts had spoiled her, they would say. Doe would point out that several of her pureblood classmates probably did no washing at all, and simply said _Scourgify_ over their soiled clothes. Her mother would then tell her that was a repulsive way to live, and no daughter of hers — witch or not! — would do so. 

Considering how tense things had been between the three of them of late, Doe suspected a minor tiff over laundry would erupt into a full-blown argument. So she tiptoed to the washer after she judged her parents had left for the shop.

She wrinkled her nose as she opened the machine door. Her mum had forgotten to take out the last load, evidently, and the damp-smelling pile of clothes became yet another obstacle in Doe’s quest for clean knickers. Doe pushed the back door open and freed up space on the clotheslines in the garden, then trooped back inside to swap her parents’ clothes for hers. 

It was a surprisingly warm morning, happily enough. The forecast for the month warned of thunderstorms, which Doe was _not_ looking forward to. Bad enough that the weather was unpleasant year-round at Hogwarts. If the only good season was stolen from her — well, what was the point, then?

The Walker home was hushed even after the washer began to whir. Doe decided she _had_ outwitted her parents, and took out her radio. She hesitated with one hand on the dial before forgoing Sonorus in favour of the WWN’s Top 40 station. 

The first song on was the Gobstones, whom Mary liked. Doe herself was ambivalent about the band. Yes, they had decent instruments, but the lead singer had such an odd sort of voice — scratchy and wavering and not exactly pleasant. Mary called it an acquired taste. _That_ was a taste Doe didn’t much care to acquire.

She shook out the wet washing through three more songs and an advertisement break. Then the host cued the hourly news update. 

_“Nine on the clock and a very good morning to all our listeners. It’s a warm weekend coming up, a good sign for the last few preseason Quidditch matches. But of course today’s big story is the trial of ICW delegate Alistair Longbottom for alleged smuggling of cursed goods into the Ministry. Longbottom’s trial will be before the full Wizengamot, and, as the Ministry declared just an hour ago, open to the public.”_

If there was more to the headline, Doe never heard it. She dropped the pair of trousers she was holding and lunged for the radio, scanning at once to Sonorus. 

_“Hello, is this working? Sorry, the broadcast spell might be wonky, we’ve never done this outside of the studio—”_ That was Angharad, Doe knew; she had a lower, deeper voice than her co-host.

 _“Shh!”_ said Rhiannon. _“Hello, listeners, we’re your hosts at Sonorus—”_

Doe listened, rapt, until the message faded away and looped back around. It was nine. The trial began at half past. That meant she had to hurry, washing be damned.

She found a wrinkled pair of dungarees at the back of her dresser, slinging it over one shoulder. Then she ran to the hall telephone, dialling Mary’s number faster than she ever had before.

The voice on the other end was low and melodic — Mrs. Macdonald. “Hello?”

“Hi, Mrs. M,” Doe said breathlessly. “It’s Dorcas.”

“Oh, Dorcas!” Mrs. Macdonald’s smile was audible in her voice. “How are you, dear?”

Doe was bouncing from one foot to the other. “Great, thanks. Splendid. Is Mary awake yet?” 

“You’ve just missed her, I’m afraid. She’s running my errands for me.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll tell her to phone you back?”

“No, that’s all right — I won’t be in. But could you tell her I’m going to be at the Ministry’s trial today?”

At once Mrs. Macdonald became concerned. “Trial? What trial?” 

“Oh — not the, um, not the regular British ministry.”

 _“Ah.”_ By her tone, it was clear she was still a little confused. “Enjoy yourself, dear.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Macdonald. Have a nice weekend.”

She raced back to her bedroom and tugged on her dungarees, pausing only to magically clean her underthings. What her mother didn’t know, she judged, wouldn’t hurt her.

But it seemed as though simply thinking of Ruth Walker had summoned her. When Doe left her room in search of a better shirt to wear — perhaps there was something of hers on the clothesline? — she ran right into her parents. 

They looked to be headed out of the house, but not the Muggle way. The sitting room door was open, so she could see the roaring fireplace, for which there was only one explanation in August. Her parents glanced at one another and then at her, caught.

“Are you going out?” Doe asked, coming to stand in the doorway. They were both wearing the same yellow T-shirt, she realised, with glimmering letters that read _Unity & Equality _ on their fronts. 

At last she had caught them. She couldn’t have planned it better — the T-shirts, the protest she knew was happening that day, the guilty expressions they wore. She strode into the room and stopped short when she noticed the box between them. It was filled to the top with more yellow tees. 

“Nice of you to give out shirts,” said Doe, plucking one off the top of the pile. “Is this my size, d’you think?”

“Dorcas—” her father began.

She folded her arms over her chest, anger bubbling up her throat. “Don’t. The time to actually tell me things was about...three months ago. You know, when you wrote me saying I shouldn’t take a Ministry internship and I _did_ it, no questions asked, because I _trust_ you.” 

The anger cracked, and the molten mess that remained threatened to spill over as tears. She reined it in, leaned into the fury instead of the sadness, and threw her hands up. “I found out you’re involved with this protest group on the bloody _radio!”_

“Language,” her mother murmured.

“Mum, oh my _God._ Would you stop trying to change the subject and tell me why you never said a word?”

The fire crackled in the quiet. Doe balled up the U&E tee into her fist. 

“Right,” she said, “I’m going to the Ministry.”

At once both her parents grew panicked.

“Just wait a minute, Doe—” said Joe.

“You can’t go!” said Ruth, much more to the point.

Doe’s brows shot up. _“Can’t_ I?”

Her father sighed. “Ruth, please. We don’t all need to argue. But—” he turned to Doe “—it’s simply not safe. We’ve no idea what’ll happen—”

“Do you have eighteen-year-old wixen in the group?” Doe interrupted. “Do you have anyone who’s recently finished Hogwarts? Then _why not me?”_

“You’re barely of age!” Ruth spluttered. “We are not making this call as organisers, Dorcas. We’re telling you, as your parents, that you are not to go.”

Doe drew back, breathing hard. “In one year I’ll be in Auror training. I’ll be risking my life every day. You need to understand that you raised me to _fight,_ and you have to get used to the idea that I’ll do just that.”

Abruptly, unexpectedly, Ruth’s eyes welled up with tears. She started forward, as if to reach for Doe, who took a step away. Ruth froze.

“We don’t _want_ you to fight,” she said.

Doe would not allow herself to bend. “It’s a little late for that,” she said shortly. “You should go. The other U&E members are probably waiting.” 

_“Dorcas.”_ This was her father. He did not often raise his voice, and he seemed just as surprised as anyone that he was doing so now. “Do _not_ speak to your mother like that.”

It was not like Doe to argue. It was not like her to blow up at her parents. It was not like any of them to be standing there in that tableau, and yet there they were. Doe took another step backward, and then another, and then another.

“I’ll see you at the Ministry,” she said, and left the room. She could hear her parents’ murmured conversation — and then the blaze of the fireplace reacting to Floo powder, meaning they had decided not to follow her. Doe swiped at her eyes and glanced over her shoulder. From this angle she couldn’t see into the sitting room at all.

 _I’m sorry,_ she thought, and, _I love you._

Then she went back into the garden, the far corner of which was the only part of the house that was unguarded against Apparition. There was nothing left to do but to go.

* * *

_i. Barricades_

_WWN News Hour: Evening News Bulletin_

_FRI, 5/8/79 — 4 P.M._

_(Proofed, 3:25, J. W.)_

_Chaos erupted at the Ministry during the Longbottom trial this afternoon. Following a midday recess, the accused took the stand and was questioned by Chief Warlock Agnes Burke…_

Andrew Stockton, the WWN’s primary news reader, took off his spectacles and glanced up sharply at the aide who’d handed him the bulletin. She was small, but deceptively self-assured — a former Gryffindor, if Andrew was remembering correctly. He’d always had a better memory for such facts than names.

“Still no live broadcast?” he said. What _was_ the witch’s name? 

The aide froze on her way out of the studio antechamber. “No, Mr. Stockton. The Ministry’s warded against broadcasting spells outside of the press areas.”

Andrew nodded. He had never been a live correspondent, and he was grateful for it now. The WWN had sent one of the junior reporters on the news desk to the trial, he’d heard. _Poor bugger._

“No official word from the Ministry yet?”

“No, Mr. Stockton.”

In the uneasy silence that followed, both Andrew and the aide glanced at the wall clock. It was half past three. Their last live update from inside the courtroom had come at one-thirty, abruptly fizzling out when the commotion had begun. Whatever the commotion _was,_ anyway. It was hard to make out the reporter’s voice over all the shouts and the _bang-crack_ of spellcasting.

“Two hours,” Andrew murmured, dread knotting up in his gut. He was in his thirties, and could remember tumultuous years in the Ministry — Nobby Leach’s strange illness (poisoning, they’d said, and the name they whispered was Abraxas Malfoy’s), Eugenia Jenkins’s ouster. Minchum was supposed to be the iron hand, capable and decisive. He was supposed to keep them all safe.

“What do you think’s happening inside?” the aide asked. Andrew realised it was the first time she had said something to him without having been spoken to first.

“Merlin and Morgana, I haven’t a clue.”

“So,” said Peter under his breath, “maybe we ought to have left with the protesters after all.”

“Which protesters do you mean?” Sirius said. “The handful who walked out, or the ones all around us right now?”

Doe, the shortest of the four of them, was struggling to see to the front of the room. They had been close to the exit right after they’d been herded into the place. But once it had become clear that the Ministry employees who’d followed would not be answering any questions, the Marauders had picked out a back corner, assuring her it was the best place to be in a crowded room of dubious allegiance. Of course, that meant she could not hear what the MLEP officers who’d just entered the chamber were saying — nor the Auror who’d come with them. 

_She_ didn’t think the crowd was anything to be worried about. It seemed that several other protesters had had the same idea about staying back to see the rest of the trial. Yellow-shirted U&E sympathisers were some of the loudest voices in the room, arguing with the DMLE employees. 

No, Doe was more concerned about when they would be let out. Her parents would have heard the news, no doubt, and they would be worried sick. Not to mention if the spell that had upended the quills had _really_ come from someone in the audience, then they could be trapped with that person right now. 

And where was Lily? Doe had dragged her friend into this mess only to be separated from her. Peter said James had gone with her in the mayhem. Hopefully Lily was not alone… It had been hours since they’d left the courtroom.

“Can we go closer to the front?” Doe said, deciding that she did not want to move around without the boys anyway.

“That might be a situation best avoided,” said Peter nervously.

“We ought to know what’s going on,” Remus said. “I vote we move.”

“We’re moving,” Sirius said. “Sorry, Pete.”

Staying in a tight clump, the four of them inched towards the front of the holding area. The chamber was the size of a large Hogwarts classroom, with only a few flimsy benches towards the back that had been occupied by the elderly or anyone who could not stand or sit on the floor. There was one window set into the back walls, but like all Ministry windows it was merely an illusion, and only showed fake weather.

Separating the group from the MLEP and Auror contingent was a pearlescent magical barrier. An MLEP witch had walked through it earlier, coming around to assure all of them that this was routine security procedure, but Doe guessed that the barrier was one-way only.

“—for Merlin’s sake, everyone, quiet!” one of the Aurors was shouting. His fair hair was ruffled, as if he’d been running a frantic hand through it. “Quiet just _one_ bloody minute!” 

In the brief, sullen silence that followed, he called, “Any Ministry employees here? Ministry employees, please come to the front.”

“You’ve already taken all the Ministry employees,” said one wizard. “What about the rest of us, eh?” There was a round of angry _yeah_ s.

“Well, I’ve got to be doubly sure,” the Auror said. “Any underage witches or wizards? Underage witches or wizards, please—”

“Would it help to pretend we’re underage?” Doe wondered aloud.

“They’d figure that out in no time,” said Sirius. “No Trace anymore, remember?”

“Shit. I didn’t think of that.”

“No? No one? All right, queue up against the wall, please.” The Auror flapped a hand as if to direct them. 

“What are we lining up for, Dawlish?” This came from a brown-skinned curvy witch right up against the barrier. 

The Auror — Dawlish — looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but here, in that moment. “Wand inspection,” he said gruffly. “Now, queue up!”

“Come off it,” said the wizard who’d complained before. “You lock us up for hours, you don’t tell us a bloody thing, and now you’re checking our wands? We’re not all criminals in here!”

“These are not normal circumstances,” retorted Dawlish. “Queue up, or I am authorised to use force, sir.”

“Just one of you?” the wizard jeered. “I’d like to see you try.”

The door flew open, admitting four more in Auror robes. They conferred in whispers, Dawlish’s standoff against the civilians taking a backseat for the moment. Balanced with one hand on Peter’s shoulder, Doe spotted a familiar face when they broke apart. 

“Kieran!” She’d never been so relieved to see the smarmy Auror-in-training.

 _“Eurgh,”_ said Sirius, somehow turning the one syllable into seven. “O’Malley.”

Doe ignored him, still waving at Kieran. “Over here!”

His gaze narrowed when they landed on her; the relief was clearly not two-sided. Kieran came up to the barrier in front of them but did not cross it. Instead he studied the Marauders with a distasteful eye. 

“Line up for the inspection, Walker.” 

He enunciated her surname crisply and meaningfully. It took Doe a moment to realise why — in that space of time, two of the other Aurors had already turned to stare at her. She tried to look as innocent as possible. Behind her, one of the Marauders swore.

“I will,” Doe said to Kieran. She thought of how her parents hadn’t wanted her working at the Ministry. She thought of Alice and Penelope listening to Sonorus, and what Alice had said: _she’s no Kieran._ She needed to play this very carefully. “What’s going on? They’ve had us here for hours. Do they not know where the spell came from yet?”

He seemed to be caught between wanting to show off about the information he was privy to, and not wanting to tell her anything. 

“We were separated from our friends in the courtroom,” Doe pressed. “We just want to know they’re all right.”

“Everyone’s fine.”

“What’s taking the Aurors so long? Can’t they interrogate us and be done with it?”

His frown deepened. Finally Kieran said, “Moody’s shield collapsed. Most of the senior Aurors from the courtroom are at St. Mungo’s, because of the hexed quills.”

His voice had been lowered, but not so much that those immediately around Doe and the Marauders couldn’t hear. The complaining gave way to shocked silence.

 _“Moody’s_ in St. Mungo’s?” Sirius said in disbelief. 

“More importantly,” said Remus, his brow furrowed, _“Moody’s_ shield gave out?”

“Impossible,” breathed Doe. The tips of her fingers were tingling, as if they were about to go numb. That was fear, she realised. The same feeling she’d felt months ago, in the seventh floor corridor when Mulciber had shouted a curse at James…

Except this was not a fear she could jump to solve. There was no spell to turn back time, to undo what had been done.

“You Unity and Equality lot can pat yourselves on the back for it,” Kieran sneered. 

Sirius laughed, an incisive _ha!_ “Right, mate, point out to me when a protester took out Alastor Moody.”

Kieran’s eyes flashed. “The likes of you might not understand, Black, but I’ll spell it out. Maybe if we hadn’t been trying to deal with your commotion, the quills wouldn’t have got loose in the first place.” He scowled at Doe again. “Some Auror you’d make.”

She tensed. Walker was a common enough last name, and she could very easily disavow U&E. Not that what Kieran O’Malley thought of her mattered...but still… Even as she hesitated, though, Doe remembered her mother’s eyes welling up with tears. _I_ am _proud of her,_ she thought.

A hand clamped over her shoulder before she could reply. It was not one of the Marauders, but the witch who had identified the Auror Dawlish by name. 

“Are you going to inspect our wands or argue with us?” she said to Kieran, nudging Doe towards the wall as she spoke. 

A strange cold feeling came over Doe’s shoulders; she tried to jerk out of the woman’s grip, but she was remarkably strong. Doe glanced down, and saw that the Puddlemere brown of her T-shirt had been leaching away, returning to its natural yellow. Where the woman held her, the charmed mud-brown colour was slowly overtaking the yellow once more.

Doe’s other shoulder bumped up against the wall. Kieran lost interest in them once he saw that they were complying with instructions, and he rejoined the other Aurors. The Marauders trooped after Doe and the older witch, wearing equally stormy expressions.

“I always hated that git,” Peter muttered.

“Slytherins,” Sirius said.

 _“Wankers,”_ Remus corrected.

Doe stared at the witch, who was leaning against the wall in silence. “Thanks,” she said. “I hadn’t noticed my T-shirt.”

“I did,” said Sirius, “but I reckoned if I drew my wand I’d start a national incident.”

Remus’s eyes went wide. “Thank _God,”_ he said fervently. “You used your judgment for the better, for once.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“You didn’t draw yours,” Doe said to the stranger, the realisation coming to her as she vocalised it. “But...you did magic.”

The witch smiled. “Wixen all around the world use wandless magic, you know. I’m not very good at it — hard to unlearn wand magic when it’s what you grew up with. But, well, I thought it was worth a try.”

Peter’s mouth hung open. “I didn’t know wandless magic was _real!”_

“Pick your jaw off the floor, Wormtail,” said Sirius, grinning.

“What if it had gone wrong?” Remus said, not scolding but curious.

The witch winced. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” She looked back at Doe. “I reckoned that if you were going to tell that Auror you’re with U&E you already would have. I hope that’s all right.”

Doe nodded. “More than all right. Although — I don’t know if you could say I’m with U&E, per se.” She had the T-shirt, of course, but she could not even have said what constituted membership. 

Understanding bloomed on the witch’s face. “So you _are_ Ruth and Joe’s daughter.”

She didn’t think there was any use denying it. Once might have fooled Kieran, but a second time was a step too far. 

“I am,” Doe said, both pleased and a little bit embarrassed. She had never been recognisable before, not unless you counted her neighbours calling out hello on summer mornings.

“They talk about you,” said the witch. “A Gryffindor, aren’t you?”

Both her pleasure and her embarrassment heightened. “Er. Yes. It’s my last year. Sorry — you didn’t mention your name?”

“Oh!” The witch’s eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. “So I didn’t. Mari.” She held out a hand.

Doe took it. “Dorcas. These are my classmates—” She gestured for the Marauders to introduce themselves.

“Haven’t we been promoted to friends yet? We did just save you from O’Malley,” said Sirius.

“Save _me_ from _him?”_

“Saved you from being arrested because you socked him in the face, yeah.” He nodded at Mari. “Sirius.”

Remus and Peter followed suit, and Mari shook their hands. 

“So if you’re from U&E, do you have any idea when they’ll be letting us out?” Peter said.

She sighed. “We seem to be with a less friendly group of Aurors. They might have us in for longer, just to let us stew.”

Across from them, against the other wall, the same few wixen who had been arguing with the MLEP all afternoon were refusing to surrender their wands.

Doe frowned. “You don’t think the person who got us in this mess is in here with us, then?” On the face of it that was a relief, but she had a feeling the alternative would be more unsettling still. 

“I imagine whoever did this was skilled enough to aim a spell at the box of quills on the courtroom floor, and then to collapse a shield set up by senior Aurors. Why would you then allow that person to get captured thanks to routine Ministry protocol?” Mari shook her head. “Whoever it is has a cover believable enough that they’ve already escaped suspicion.”

Doe held in a shiver. Mari’s analysis was so matter-of-fact and rational, she couldn’t help but hear the ring of truth in it. But _that_ meant there was a spy in the Ministry. Maybe even more than one. How deep did the Death Eaters run?

“Don’t touch me!” one of the civilians shouted, engaged in a wand tug-of-war with the Auror Dawlish. 

“Let her alone, bastard—”

There was a bang, and smoke filled the air. Doe reached for her pocket at once, mind whirling— But someone else beat her to it, and the smoke dissipated at once. Dawlish had been blown back by the force of a spell, and, by the looks of it, knocked right into one of the other Aurors. The witch who’d cast the jinx stared at her own wand in shock.

And all around them — on both sides of the barrier — wands were pulled out of pockets and held aloft. Doe had never been in a fight before, not a real one. Those play duels in the courtyard at school were nothing compared to the sheer terror-and-adrenaline cocktail that this moment was. 

But unlike the paralysing fear she’d felt hearing the news about injured Aurors from Kieran, Doe was not immobilised by the tension now. The electric bite to the air was energising, almost; she was on her toes without even realising it. Her mind was empty — not blank, but focused, ready to act.

“Merlin and Morgana,” said Mari under her breath, and holding her hands up in surrender, she walked out into the middle of the room, right in front of the barrier. 

Doe had been certain someone would throw a hex. But neither side seemed to have anticipated this. Now Mari had everyone’s attention.

“The Auror in the back—” Sirius whispered.

“I see him,” said Remus. The man in question was poised to attack, foot cheating to one side in a recognisable duelling stance. “D’you reckon spells go through the barrier?”

“One-way only, I’ll bet,” Doe said.

“Please, everyone, stay calm.” Mari addressed the angry crowd here. “I know we’re frustrated and rightly so, but there’s kids here who could get hurt if this turns into an all-out brawl.” She pointed at Doe and the Marauders, each of whom grew indignant at that characterisation. 

Then Mari turned to the Aurors. “You can only hold us for twenty-four hours without charging us. Either tell us the charges and process us as necessary. Move us to the real holding areas on Level Ten. Or admit you’ve got nothing and let us go.”

“Believe me, we want this to blow over just as much as you do,” said one of the Aurors.

“But the culprit could be in this very—” Dawlish began.

“Is your strategy is to keep civilians trapped in with an attempted mass murderer?” said Mari coldly. “I can’t wait until the _Prophet_ gets word.”

The invocation of the press cowed the Aurors. Pushing her advantage, Mari added, “You haven’t even let us use the loos. Honestly, you might as well move us to cells.”

“Does she want us arrested?” Peter whispered.

The Aurors exchanged glances. Their bluff had apparently been called. 

“You can go to the loos one at a time, and we’ll escort you,” said Dawlish.

Doe relaxed. That was a step, at least…

But Mari said, “No. You tried to disarm that poor woman by force. Who’s to say you won’t take us to the loo and strip us of our wands anyway?”

The crowd behind her, having realised she was on their side, began to voice their agreement. Doe watched with her heart in her mouth to see how the Aurors would react now.

“I don’t care how short-staffed you are,” Mari said. “Bring in someone else. We won’t negotiate with you lot.” Raising her wand, she sent a white spark through the barrier, turning it slightly more opaque. 

It was not a moment too soon; the Auror who’d been readying an attack flung a jinx her way, only to be stopped short by the shield.

Mari smiled placidly. “If we can’t get out, you can’t get in.”

_Interlude: Burnley Street_

Petunia Evans did not have to look up at the clock. 

She’d been watching it all afternoon, and so she knew precisely when the minute hand ticked over to twelve. It was four o’clock. 

The office kept summer hours for Fridays, and so she had been able to return to the Burnley Street flat at two. Lily had been nowhere to be seen. Petunia had told herself not to worry — she knew well that her sister had Fridays off, and so she could not be anywhere that meant a full-day engagement.

Lily would remember about dinner, and the fact that Vernon would be visiting. Lily would remember that this dinner meant a great deal to Petunia. It marked a year since she’d first introduced her boyfriend to her family. Of course, there would be no Doris this year, bustling around the Cokeworth house’s kitchen and humming along to Peggy Lee on the record player… 

It was just the two of them. Which meant the cooking would be that much more difficult. Petunia was a serviceable cook, having taught herself since she’d left home. But serviceable was not good enough. Vernon was a man with taste. She stared down at the faded blue cover of Doris’s book of recipes until her vision blurred.

Then she straightened and opened it to the page she needed. It was still four o’clock, after all. There was ample time for her to figure out the recipe herself. She had accidentally — but fortuitously — prepared for the worst.

* * *

_ii. Security Protocol_

“Don’t lie to the Aurors,” Lily said, her voice low. She had given up trying to pretend she wasn’t concussed, and was leaning against James on the bench at the back of the holding area. 

“You’ve already said that,” James reminded her. “More than once.” That was definitely a concussion symptom. He had counted several more: her unfocused gaze, her dizziness, halting speech. 

And it was past bloody four o’clock. None of the MLEP had sent in a Healer yet, and James could not get into an argument when shouting would probably give Lily a headache. If only they hadn’t been separated from the others, he thought, then they could have made their demands heard.

“No, I haven’t,” said Lily.

James sighed. “You have. You’re concussed.”

Her sigh mirrored his. “If I believed you wouldn’t lie to the Aurors, then I wouldn’t keep saying it.”

“If you weren’t _concussed—”_ he raised his voice for that word, glaring at the barrier separating them from the MLEP “—then you wouldn’t keep saying it.”

One Auror had been in and out of the room, and she wasn’t one that James had recognised. She’d only stayed long enough to tell the MLEP what to do, which was to weed out any underage witches and wizards and Ministry employees. It seemed that their group, small and frightened as it was, wasn’t a priority for the DMLE. Considering that all their wands had been confiscated, there was no reason they ought to be.

“Come on, Evans,” James said, his eye on the door. “If they let us out you can get your head looked at. And wouldn’t that be a gift to us all?”

She smiled, which was some small reassurance. “You’re neither a comic genius nor a regular one. We don’t have the Trace.”

He blinked, leaning back until he hit the wall. “Oh, right.” Another thought occurred to him, and he frowned in contemplation.

Lily was watching him closely. “We can’t pass for Ministry employees either.”

“You’re no fun at all.”

Joking was the easiest way to mask his concern. Of course Lily was not in any immediate danger. It wasn’t as though she was _dying._ But he could not help but feel frustrated, knowing that her discomfort and pain could be easily solved if only the officers at the front of the room would _believe_ they weren’t trying to sneak off and blow up the Ministry.

The next time he saw Poppy Pomfrey, James vowed, he would be asking her a lot of questions. 

The door cracked open again, revealing not one but two Aurors. James sat up straighter.

“Cover your ears,” he told Lily, and then he shouted, “Hello, my friend back here’s concussed!”

_“James?”_

_“Marlene?”_

Marlene McKinnon, hands on her hips, rounded upon the MLEP officer who’d been supervising them. “Christ, you’ve got a concussed Hogwarts student back there and you didn’t send for a Healer?”

“You’re not yet a full Auror,” the officer said, “don’t take that tone with—”

“Clearly you haven’t heard the latest,” said Marlene grimly. She rummaged in the pockets of her robes; as she did, her companion strode through the barrier right towards where James and Lily sat.

 _“Alice?”_ said James.

“Yes, yes, we all know who everyone else is,” Alice said briskly, kneeling in front of Lily. “Does your head hurt?”

Lily grimaced, easing off James’s shoulder. “A little. But I don’t know if it’s proper headache, or just where I hit my head. And there’s a sort of ringing in my ears…”

He stretched out his arm, which had gone dead from Lily’s weight. “D’you need me around, or—?”

“She’s in good hands,” Alice said, not taking her eyes off Lily. She already had her wand out, and was muttering spells under her breath. 

“Right.”

James got up and wove through the mostly-seated crowd to the barrier, where Marlene was still speaking to the MLEP officer. But in the minute since she’d come in, something had changed. The officer’s belligerence had become trepidation. And now that James was close enough, he could see that Marlene’s robes were not marked by the small crest that Alice’s were, identifying her as an Auror-in-training. 

“Did you just get promoted?” he said. “I thought the Auror program formally ended in October.”

Marlene’s resolve seemed to wobble for just a moment. “A lot’s happened in the past five minutes, James.”

“Not in here, it hasn’t.” 

Marlene did not reply. James arched an eyebrow. “What, did half the Aurors retire in protest?”

Still she remained silent.

“What is it? Did they—” he lowered his voice “—die or something?”

“Merlin, no!” Marlene said. She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. “A lot of them are out of commission. Could be months, the Healers are saying…”

“Oh.” He was glad that he hadn’t been demanding immediate release moments after a mass funeral. “But they’re not going to die?”

“They’re not _dying._ But, well… In the first few minutes after the shield broke and the quills fell on them,” said Marlene, “a senior Auror tried to strangle the head of the office.”

“Bloody hell.” James shook his head. How had the afternoon gone from a protest to an interrogation to _this?_ “Is that what they do, then? Turn people...violent?”

“They think that’s how the curse works, yeah. A compulsion to violence. If we hadn’t realised and separated the affected Aurors…” A haunted look came over Marlene. “They could’ve killed each other.” 

There was another detail James couldn’t understand just yet. “Feathers broke a shield charm, is that what you’re telling me?”

She gave a helpless shrug. “Point is, we’re dealing with the consequences. We’ve no commander, which leaves the lot of us junior staff running around like headless chickens.”

He filed this piece of information away for later. “At least could we have our wands back? I know you must have _Priori Incantatem_ ’d them all by now. And you’ve seen this lot, they’re not starting any riots.”

Marlene leaned closer, her eyes fiery. “I _want_ to give you your wands. I want to let you all go! But I became an Auror about ten minutes ago, James. I’ve got no authority, and I’m certainly not going to convince anyone to listen to me.

“The Wizengamot’s sequestered away in separate rooms, so they can’t deliberate on anything. Crouch is at St. Mungo’s trying to figure out if there’s an Auror well enough to lead us!” She huffed. 

“Go higher than Crouch,” James grumbled. He couldn’t think of a way that made sense, as a plan, but he wanted to complain about it anyway. “Shake that Burke woman by the shoulders.”

Marlene rolled her eyes. “Don’t be thick. What next, write to the Minister?”

“Hey, if the wand suits…”

She hesitated for a moment; James brightened, realising she _was_ considering it. But then she deflated. “They’ve got loads more to deal with right now.”

_Interlude: Hesphaestus Gore Ward, St. Mungo’s Hospital_

Frank Longbottom waited in the hospital’s fourth floor corridor, outside the door to the ward. The contingent of injured Aurors had been moved from the Spell Damage floor’s emergency ward into this room not long ago. It had taken some time for the Healers to decide they were in stable condition.

Well, they were all chained to their beds, so Frank wasn’t sure how stable they really were. 

He was meant to be guarding the door to the ward, which seemed a superfluous job. Whoever had pulled that stunt with the quills and the shield charms obviously had meant for it to happen on a public stage. He doubted anyone was coming back to finish the Aurors off. 

No, he would much rather have been at the Ministry. Word was that the situation there was chaotic, although, ironically, his father had been moved to a cell near the courtrooms and was probably safer than any of the audience members. If only the Wizengamot could be handed Fawley’s letter, then his father would surely be exonerated and removed from the premises… 

His mother and the rest of his family were unharmed, and his uncle Algie had seen them all home safely. But the Ministry was also where Alice was. Alice, who’d shut down all his attempts to convince her to testify against his father — Alice, who’d shouted that she didn’t care if his reputation was a sinking ship, _fuck_ Fawley and Crouch and Minister Minchum for good measure — Alice, who’d informed him he was not to try breaking up with her, and who’d lied for him in the witness box anyway, even after he _had._

By Frank’s reckoning, he’d done his level best with the shield charm, and the hasty transport of the injured Aurors to St. Mungo’s. But he’d made one big mistake. 

The one good thing about his useless guard-the-door job, though, was that Barty Crouch and Harold Minchum were down the corridor, deep in conversation. Frank couldn’t even see the Minister’s face; his personal team of Hit Wizards had surrounded him on all sides, with only Crouch admitted into their blockade. Frank could, however, overhear snatches of what they were saying. Evidently the Ministry hadn’t been taught the wonders of _Muffliato,_ which Frank had made use of on many occasions at Hogwarts.

“—an interim head at once,” Minchum murmured. “We cannot afford to delay.”

“I agree, Minister.” But Crouch paused before going on. “Given the chain of command…” His voice became too low for Frank to hear.

This, though, he could work out for himself. Most of the Aurors who’d been struck by the quills had been the first to leap up and help with Moody’s shield, so they were the more experienced members of the department. 

Julius Fawley, the office head, had been so difficult to subdue after the curse that three Healers had wound up Stunning him before feeding him a sleeping potion. It had been awful to watch.

Aurors Milner, Hammond, O’Hare, and Chung led the office’s regional desks for England, Wales, Northern Ireland, and Scotland respectively. Auror Ramsey headed the Investigation Department. Frank hadn’t had the chance to work with them, as the trainees shadowed only junior Aurors, save for the one lucky person who had Moody. But he knew who they were — not least because Milner and Hammond had treated him with a marked coldness after his father’s arrest. 

After the four of them — all of whom were currently restrained in beds alongside Fawley — came the senior-most Auror: Alastor Moody. _He_ was out too. Frank counted his way down the hierarchy — Fenton, Peakes, Shah… The next head of the Auror Office, he judged, would have to be Lachlan Travers.

Frank didn’t know the man well. He was only in his thirties. His father had been head of the DMLE, though, and that counted for a lot in the eyes of wizards like Crouch and Minchum. After all, Frank had seen that firsthand, what with all the Ministry employees who’d recognised his surname, made reference to his father, and wished him the best purely because of the family line. 

“—in agreement, then,” Minchum said. “Does he have command at the Ministry?”

Crouch bristled almost imperceptibly. “Not at present, sir. The office has convoluted internal rules for deputisation. I’ve been in charge from here.”

“If we’ve selected an acting head there’s no need for that, is there? Let’s have the situation in hand — I don’t fancy facing the reporters on Monday if this lasts into the night.”

“Now, wait just one moment,” barked a voice right beside Frank.

He didn’t stop to think; he reacted. In a flash his wand pointed squarely at the man who’d spoken.

“Very good, Longbottom,” said Moody. “Next time you ought to go right ahead and cast the spell you’re thinking of.” He was wearing a hospital gown, which was an odd sight upon one of the most well-respected men in the department, and leaning heavily on the doorframe. “Reattach this for me, would you?” 

To Frank’s surprise, he held out his wooden leg.

“Er—” Frank began.

The Hit Wizards down the corridor had noticed what was happening. “Stand down, Moody!” one of them shouted.

Moody rolled his eyes. “I’m unarmed, Marks. And one-legged, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

The Hit Wizards had begun moving towards the ward door, wands out, but now they paused. 

“If you’re not going to put my leg on, at least conjure me a chair,” said Moody.

Frank did so, and the older Auror sat down with a thump, busying himself with his wooden leg like there wasn’t a cadre of bodyguards with weapons pointed at him.

“You ought to be in bed, Moody,” said the Minister. Save for his slightly raised brows, he did not seem too surprised that Moody wasn’t where he ought to be.

“Healer Quincy says I’m remarkably resistant to curses,” Moody said. “And some bright trainee cast a well-placed Shield Charm at the last moment.”

He glanced pointedly at Frank, who coughed. Moody finished fastening on his prosthetic and stood slowly. The Hit Wizards lifted their wands once more. Once again, the Auror was unruffled. “If you’re not going to hex me you might as well put those down.”

“Are you fully recovered?” asked Crouch. Relief was not a comfortable expression on the man. He wound up looking merely puzzled.

“Recovered enough,” hedged Moody.

“Not...Not quite, Mr. Moody.” Healer Quincy, a frazzled middle-aged witch, came to stand behind him. She put a hand on the chair like she was considering removing it, then whipped it away quickly when Moody sat down again.

Crouch turned to the Healer. “Is he recovered enough to leave?”

“I would give it the weekend, sir.” Quincy took in the Minister with wide eyes, hesitating before she went on. “Mr. Moody has a sound constitution, and is coming along much better than the others. Regardless, considering the nature of the curse, I wouldn’t want to make a snap decision…”

“You’re afraid to release him in case he decides to go on a killing spree,” finished Minchum. 

“...No, sir.”

“Longbottom would put me down if I looked like I was about to,” said Moody blithely. 

Frank blinked. 

“This solves our problem of succession, at least,” Minchum said, relief now plain on his face. “Any opposition to being named acting head of the Auror Office, Moody?”

“None.”

“It’s done, then. Eh, Crouch?”

Crouch considered Moody for a long moment. “Travers will take charge of the situation at the Ministry for tonight. I won’t have my senior-most Auror overworking himself back to hospital.”

Moody scoffed a little. “And where are we getting the numbers to _deal_ with the situation at the Ministry?”

Frank shifted uneasily. Of course no one had told any of the senior Aurors yet… 

“We’ve promoted the third-year trainees early,” said Crouch. 

Sure enough, Moody’s expression darkened. “They’re not ready,” he said gruffly.

Before he could think better of it, Frank said, “It doesn’t matter, sir.”

Everyone in the corridor — including the Healer — turned towards him. He took a steadying breath. 

“That was an act of war today — an attack on the largest body of the Ministry, targeting our best chance to fight and capture Dark wixen,” said Frank. “We can’t replace Milner or Hammond or any of them without stretching ourselves thin lower down the office. And we can’t afford to be stretched thin at a time like this.”

“Yes,” Crouch said meditatively, “yes, promoting all the trainees would add — what, Moody, five Aurors?”

“Seven,” Frank and Moody said together.

Crouch gave a brisk nod. “I’ll draft the order.”

For a moment doubt coalesced into a pit in Frank’s stomach. He had just put himself — put Alice, and all the others — in extraordinary danger. But then he thought of the moment Moody’s shield had given way, the moment the cursed Aurors had charged one another with no explanation or preamble…

He had searched for her in the crowd, forgetting he ought to protect himself, and shouted _Protego_ in her direction. Alice had been casting her own shield — not over herself, not over Frank, but at Alastor Moody, who’d dropped his wand and could only brace himself for the feathers’ curse.

They were already _in_ extraordinary danger. And neither of them was the type to back down. 

Minchum and Crouch seemed to have jointly come to the conclusion that the conversation was over. The former strode off without a backward glance, though Frank faintly heard him asking one of the Hit Wizards, “What the hell’s a _wixen?”_ Crouch followed a few paces behind, his head lowered. 

“Mr. Crouch,” Frank called, before the man could vanish down the corridor.

The Minister kept going but Crouch stopped, whirling around to face him once more. “Yes, Longbottom?”

“Auror Fawley’s letter,” said Frank haltingly, “he was going to submit it to the Wizengamot before — before everything…”

“Let’s leave Crouch to his business, Longbottom,” Moody cut in.

Dismayed, he could only nod. Crouch strode off, leaving Frank, Moody, and the Healer alone once more. Inside the Gore Ward someone moaned in pain. Quincy muttered something that sounded like _oh, dear_ and hurried after her patient. 

Moody remained seated in his chair, planted right in the doorway. “Crouch’ll want to know how you heard about the letter,” he said.

“I shouldn’t have said that.” Frank stared down at the hospital’s tiled floor. “It was stupid of me—”

“Probably,” said Moody. 

“He’ll know it was you, won’t he? And then you’ll be in hot water too…”

“Don’t worry about me. Crouch has more pressing issues than telling me off. More importantly, I’ve got a copy of the letter in the pocket of my robes. They put my things away, but I expect Healer Quincy can tell you where.”

Frank gaped at him. “D’you— D’you want me to get it?”

Moody’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t make me regret sticking my neck out for you, lad. Keep up.”

“Right. Right!” Frank nodded, backing away. Then he stopped. “The letter — was it a signed copy?”

Something akin to satisfaction showed on Moody’s face. “Well done. No, Fawley wouldn’t keep the signed copies lying around — wouldn’t even give them to me. No idea why he thought _I’d_ be handing it over to Agnes bloody Burke.”

“Maybe he was right to be careful,” Frank muttered, glancing into the ward. 

“You’re always right to be careful,” Moody barked. “Now, get me that letter. We’ve got an interim head who’s ready to sign it. And then we’ll send it off to the Ministry, eh?”

And Frank knew just who he could trust to receive it.

The ringing in Lily’s ears had faded away by the time Alice sat back on her haunches. 

“That’s the best I can do for now,” the older witch said, stowing away her wand and tucking her hair behind her ears. “I’ve fixed your symptoms, I reckon, but the underlying injury takes more than I’ve got.”

“It’s a good deal better than how things were before,” said Lily. Her head still throbbed where she’d hit it, and when she probed the spot with her fingers she could feel a distinct bump. But at least she didn’t think she was going to fall over if she tried to stand. “Thank you.”

Alice smiled faintly. “No trouble. I’m glad it wasn’t more serious.”

Several of the people around them were staring openly, listening in on the conversation. Lily supposed Alice had attained temporary notoriety for her grandstanding on the courtroom floor. She would not have envied the other witch her hefty fine — but then again, wouldn’t she have done the same for someone she cared about?

“Are you all right?” said Lily. 

Alice had been staring into the middle distance. “Oh. Oh, yes, I’m fine.” She stood, brushing invisible dust from her robes. 

Lily frowned a little. It was obvious this was a lie, but she didn’t know Alice well enough to challenge it. She said, “I’m sorry about this ruckus. It must not have been easy to sit through. And you don’t need to talk to me about it,” she added hurriedly. “I just...wanted to say I was sorry.”

Alice’s smile tightened. “Thank you. It’s been an ordeal. And it ought to have ended today.” Her tone thus far had been measured, but now a note of frustration became audible.

That took Lily by surprise. She didn’t know much about the legal system — least of all the magical one — but she thought it was unrealistic to expect a major criminal trial to be dismissed in one day. Unless, she realised, Alice knew something else...something other than the reasonable conviction that her boyfriend’s father was not a Death Eater sympathiser. 

But would probing be rude, in this case? Lily made a sympathetic face and said, once more, “I’m sorry.”

James returned from the front of the room just then, his expression troubled. He made some attempt to smooth away his frown when his gaze met Lily’s. “Feeling better?”

“Loads. I can think in full sentences now.”

“Thank Merlin. It would be so boring arguing with you if you couldn’t keep up.”

She scoffed. “Hilarious.”

“Shout if you need anything,” Alice cut in, heading off to rejoin Marlene on the other side of the barrier.

“D’you want to sit?” Lily gestured at the spot on the bench that James had left empty earlier. 

He waved her off. “We’ve been sitting for hours.”

“I don’t think the hours during which I was slumped onto you should count as restful.” She threw out the remark to test the waters — she did not _think_ they ought to be awkward about it, what with him having a girlfriend and all, but she needed confirmation. 

“It’s the middle of the day and we’re all but arrested at the Ministry,” James said drily. “Rest wasn’t big on my mind, Evans.”

Lily relaxed, leaning back against the wall. “What’s the time, by the way?” Her own watch — thankfully, not her mother’s gift but her ratty old one — had a crack running down the glass, courtesy of the same fall that had concussed her. 

“Oh, er…” James glanced at his own watch. “Half past four.”

She sat up so quickly that her head spun. “Half past _four?”_

“Christ, Evans, you’re going to give yourself even more brain damage.”

“Did you say half past four?” Lily demanded. “Are you _sure?”_

“Of course I’m sure. I can sodding read time.”

She threw her head back and groaned. “Petunia’s going to kill me!”

His brows knitted together in bafflement. “Your sister will kill you for...being caught in a near-stampede, getting a concussion, and being stuck in a holding area for hours?”

“This dinner is important to her,” Lily said, giving him a reproachful look. “And I said I’d help with the cooking… _God,_ making roast without Mum is hard enough!”

She could see him check his instinctive reply, opening his mouth before deciding to stay quiet and closing it instead. Of course nothing could be done to help things… Short of taking a run at the barrier Lily could change very little about the situation. 

“Did Marlene say anything about when we’d be let out?” she said anxiously.

“Just that the Aurors are a mess.” He filled her in on what he’d heard from Marlene: how the cursed objects had put half the office in St. Mungo’s, and the Wizengamot was divided for their safety. “Someone from higher up needs to get things moving along, but apparently Minchum and Crouch aren’t so inclined.”

She crossed her arms over her chest as she thought. They could Floo or they could owl, but that was only assuming anyone could sneak off as far as someone’s office. Lily was under no illusions about her ability to escape from Marlene or Alice. 

“There aren’t a lot of options,” said Lily.

“I’ve been thinking,” James said, “and — _Dumbledore.”_

“He’s not on the Wizengamot anymore,” she pointed out, “or he’d already be here. With the _rest_ of them.” The headmaster had been Chief Warlock some years before, but Lily knew that Dumbledore had stepped down from his Wizengamot post in protest after Minister Jenkins was forced to resign. 

“I know that. But, listen, he used to be one of them, so if anyone could convince them to just — make a decision… If they leave the building, right, and they’re safe, the DMLE won’t have to tiptoe around us while trying to protect _them._ And then they can process us faster even though they’re understaffed.” He spread his hands wide, _see?_

“It could work,” she admitted. “But the first hurdle is the biggest one. How’re we supposed to get a letter to Dumbledore?”

“I’ve got the Cloak.” James patted a pocket; her eyes went wide. “So I’ll get Alice or Marlene to let me get to the loo, and then I’ll put it on—”

“—and promptly get arrested for sneaking around the Department of _Magical Law Enforcement,”_ Lily hissed, leaning closer to him so they would not be overheard. “Are you mad? How do you think _that_ will end?”

He shrugged. “Maybe my dad will have to bail me out of lockup tomorrow. Not the end of the world.” At her still sceptical expression, he sighed. “C’mon, Evans, don’t be like that. To put it bluntly, there won’t be serious consequences for someone like me.” 

“You’re saying that on the day Frank’s father is on trial!”

“That’s not going to happen to me. My mum was a lawyer.”

 _“James,_ honestly. This is the sort of harebrained scheme you’d have cooked up in — in fifth year!”

“Wrong,” James shot back. “In fifth year I wouldn’t have stopped to tell you. I’d have just done it.”

She shoved his shoulder. “That’s — _not_ — an improvement! If you’re going, I’m coming with you.”

His brows shot up. “To the loo? You’ll have to take point on explaining that to Alice and Marlene.”

Lily huffed. There was something she ought to be remembering — but the combination of her lingering headache and James’s flippancy made it hard to think. “You’re the most infuriating person I know, Potter.”

“Less flattery, more productive suggestions, Evans.” 

She glared at him, though it soon faded to a meditative frown. “Maybe Marlene or Alice would do it.”

“I dunno. Marlene was hesitant…”

“Hesitant to write to _Minchum._ He’s no Dumbledore.”

“That MLEP bloke’s right there, and he seems like a stickler,” James said. But even as he spoke, something struck him — a light going off in his head so clearly that Lily could see it. 

At the very same time it finally hit her. _This is coming to you from the loo,_ the voice on Doe’s radio had said. Whatever broadcast spell they had used, it had worked in the restrooms that morning. And perhaps security protocol included a second wave of wards and magical protections, but it was worth a try, wasn’t it?

“Do you know any broadcast spells?” Lily said urgently before James could vocalise his own idea. 

He blinked at her. 

“For the radio, I mean. Do you know what they are?”

“No clue.”

She deflated. 

“Well, don’t leave me hanging.”

“It’s a long story — but there’s a chance that you can broadcast a message from the loos. Not very useful if we have no idea how it works, though, and we’re wandless anyway.”

“No…” said James slowly. “But the more people we tell, the more likely it is that we can reach someone who does.” 

He motioned for her to make room on the bench and sat down, angling himself towards her. Instinctively Lily leaned back; he made a face and motioned for her to come closer.

“Don’t be _weird,_ I don’t want the MLEP wizard to notice.”

“Right.” 

It was hard to relax, but she made an effort. They really were very close together. James seemed to be staring somewhere over her shoulder. She found it difficult, though, to look anywhere but at him. Her gaze fell to the scar on his upper lip, which reminded her of how he’d got it, which in turn reminded her of when he had told her about it — the dim lamplight on Horizont Alley, the shining bubble they’d been in for those few minutes.

In the months since, Lily had shied away from thinking about it, save for the immediate aftermath when she had probed her memory fruitlessly in an attempt to figure out what had happened. But this moment was not like the others. The memory did not sneak up to her and bowl her over in confusion. Nor was she ashamed or embarrassed.

 _It is what it is,_ she thought, _and we are what we are._ Lily was proud to think they had not fallen apart, despite all the odds. And to think that, under different circumstances, maybe— 

James cursed under his breath. She snapped out of her trance.

He was digging through his pocket so Lily pulled one of her legs onto the bench, trying to obscure his hand from view. Her knee promptly knocked into his. _“Sorry,”_ she whispered at once. James did not break focus, and though he mumbled _ouch_ to himself, it sounded more like an instinctive response than an expression of pain. 

“Got it,” he said at last, and withdrew the small mirror that she’d seen him use to communicate with Sirius. 

Lily glanced at the barrier. “He’s watching.”

“Bollocks. Right, come closer.”

She looked at him, then at the negligible space between them. “I hardly have anywhere to go.”

“Your face, not the rest of you,” said James, rolling his eyes. 

Apparently he didn’t trust her to take any kind of initiative, because he leaned forward as if to whisper something in her ear. Even though she knew he wasn’t going to actually say anything, she couldn’t help but tilt her head closer, curious despite not knowing why.

Or perhaps it _was_ the not knowing. One could never guess what would come next with James Potter, and even when Lily had argued with him more than she’d laughed with him, she had wanted to know _what next?_

James’s breath tickled her ear. He was close enough to kiss. He said, quietly but very clearly, “Sirius Black.”

It was all she could to to not choke on her laughter. “Maybe he can’t hear you,” she said, trying very, very hard to keep a straight face.

“Whatever for? It’s like a graveyard in here—” He frowned, jerking backwards slightly. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No!” Lily rearranged her expression into one of utmost seriousness. “No, just — hurry up. Alice is looking at us now.”

“Sirius Black,” James said, more urgently this time. _“Sirius,_ for fuck’s sake—”

“All right, Christ, I’m here,” said Sirius’s voice through the mirror. 

James and Lily jumped and shushed him in unison.

“Am I seeing Evans’s _hair?_ What the hell’s going on there?”

“We’re trying not to get caught,” James said. Lily was grateful for that — she would not have been able to explain if pressed. Not without bursting into uncontrollable giggles, anyway. “Where are you? Who’re you with?”

“Holding area on Level Two,” said Sirius. “And it’s all four of us here.”

“That’s us too.”

“Is everyone all right?” Lily cut in.

“Unhurt. Bored, really. So? What’s the play?”

“We’re going to try and get a message to someone,” James said. “Dumbledore, maybe — in fact, maybe having the ICW delegation pay attention to us might hurry things along. He's Supreme Mugwump, after all.” He raised his eyebrows at Lily, who nodded. “And Evans reckons you might be able to broadcast a message from the loos. Worth a try, anyway. Have they taken your wands?”

“No,” Sirius said.

“Ask around and find someone who knows a broadcasting spell,” Lily urged.

“Easier said than done. I don’t know if you can hear, but…we’ve got a situation on our hands.”

“What does that mean?” James said.

“Just listen,” said Sirius. There was a faint rustling, and then Lily could make out more voices in the background.

“—not the place for another protest,” an even-toned man was saying. “Take down the shield, and we’ll talk.”

“Or you’ll charge in here and _make_ us do what you want,” sniped another man. “No thanks. Our shield comes down when yours does!”

James and Lily exchanged glances. Their own room was so devoid of energy that she couldn’t even conceptualise what Sirius must have been seeing. 

“Anyway,” Sirius said, “that’s what it’s like. I can’t exactly hop to the loo.”

“Tell Dorcas,” said Lily quickly. She had known how that secret radio show worked, and her parents were part of that activist group. If she could find someone who knew the right spell… 

“Got it. How are you owling Dumbledore, anyway?”

“We have a plan,” James said. 

Lily looked at him as if to say _we do?_

“Good luck, then,” said Sirius.

“See you on the other side,” replied James, and then he was backing away, shoving the mirror into his pocket once again. 

Lily shifted away so there was more space between them. “What’s our plan?”

“Alice and Marlene are more likely to listen to us. I’ll tell them I need to use the loo, the MLEP fellow will walk me there, and you’ll have as long as we’re out to convince them.”

She pressed her lips together. It didn’t inspire much confidence, as Lily only vaguely know both of them. In fact, she would have much preferred that James did the convincing — he and Marlene knew one another, it seemed, while Lily’s only connection to them was that they’d all been at Hogwarts in the past year, and that Alice’s tenure as prefect had overlapped with hers for one measly year. 

“Are you listening?” James was saying. “Are you dizzy or something?”

She blinked. “No — no, I’m fine.”

“If you don’t think you can—”

“It’s only a conversation, James. I’ll be all right.”

He nodded. “You will be. You’re reasonable and smart. They’re reasonable and smart. Well, Alice is, anyway... Marlene can be a bit batty."

"James."

"Sorry. Point is, they’ll listen to you.”

“Right.” Lily stood, shakily at first, but Alice’s healing was effective enough that she could walk without fear of stumbling. 

James rose beside her. “Sure you’re okay?”

“Stop fussing.”

He put his hands up in surrender. “Excuse me for wanting to make sure you don’t keel over.”

She rolled her eyes, but her mouth curved into a smile. “Thanks. I don’t know if I’ve said that yet.”

“You haven’t.” James slid his hands into his pockets, giving her an expectant look.

“Then...thank you. For wanting to make sure I don’t keel over.”

He grinned. “No sweat, Evans. And you did say thank you. Plenty of times, actually.”

Lily snorted.

As he started for the front of the room, she grabbed at his arm. “Wait.”

He didn’t try to shake her off, but he wore a familiar amused expression. “What?” 

“Give me the Cloak.”

At once James’s mirth faded. “Why?”

“Because if you run off with it I’ll have no way of knowing that you’re not trying to break into an office and owl Dumbledore from there!”

He was shaking his head before she was done. “If we _both_ try, it’s more likely that we’ll get the message out—”

“Absolutely not,” said Lily, resolute. She was not going to budge on this, and he was sorely mistaken if he thought he could convince her to. “I won’t be able to convince anyone of anything if I’m busy worrying about you.”

James appeared as though he wanted to argue still, but he squared his shoulders and sighed. “Fine. I’m not giving you the Cloak— No, just listen. I’m not giving it to you, but I won’t use it. I swear.”

She studied him closely, searching for a sign of dishonesty, but she could not find one. “Okay. I believe you.”

They resumed the walk to the barrier. It took James a while to convince the MLEP wizard that he wasn’t planning anything funny — too long, considering their wands had still not been returned to them — but finally he was allowed through the shield, leaving Lily alone at the front of the room with Alice and Marlene.

She had had all of five minutes to think how to approach this. Alice and Marlene had gone from watching the room at large to watching her, though. They clearly had guessed that she was there for a reason.

“Feeling all right?” asked Marlene. “How’d you hit your head, anyway?”

“Someone knocked into me,” Lily said. “I’m not clear on what happened, really. One moment I was headed towards a door, the next James was propping me upright.” Though hours had passed, she still tensed at the muddled memory. 

Marlene winced. “Bloody hell.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t alone.”

“Right,” said Alice. “I didn’t know that you and him…”

Lily blinked at her, unable to decipher what she meant for a long, awkward second. “Oh! Er, no, it’s not — it’s not like that. He’s got a girlfriend.”

Marlene and Alice exchanged glances. Lily tried not to visibly squirm. Of course they had probably seen how close she and James had been sitting… 

“Never mind, then,” Alice said. “My mistake.”

“Anyway, I wanted to ask…” Lily sucked in a breath. “My sister’s expecting me at home, and she’ll worry if I don’t send word. If I could just write her a letter, that would be—”

“If you pass on a message, everyone will start asking,” said Alice uncertainly. 

“Please. She’s a Muggle, and I’m the only family she has.” It was true, of course, but Lily felt guilty for leveraging the fact. Even saying it aloud gave her a dull ache. “She doesn’t even know there was a trial today. I’ll dictate the letter to you if you like.”

There was a brief pause. Then Alice said, “Okay. Tell me what to say.”

“That I’m at the Ministry of Magic, and I’m being held but I’m not in danger. I’m not badly hurt. And— And that I’m really sorry.” A lump had risen in the back of Lily’s throat; she swallowed hard.

Alice had pulled out a small notepad and quill, nodding as she wrote. “What’s her name?”

“Petunia Evans.”

“Got it.” Alice looked at Marlene. “I ought to go before Connors gets back. Fewer questions that way. Can you hold down the fort?”

Lily glanced over her shoulder at the room, where witches and wizards mostly in their middle age had been hunkered down in the same position for hours. 

“I’ll manage,” Marlene said.

“And...I’m sure James’s parents are worried too,” said Lily haltingly.

Alice arched an eyebrow. “Right, anyone else you want me to owl?”

“Dumbledore.” The reasons all leapt to Lily’s lips, the same ones she and James had mulled over — his Wizengamot connections, his position on the ICW, the fact that he was _Dumbledore._ But she didn’t say anything aloud. There was no time to start an argument. Alice was either on her side or she wasn’t.

The older witch’s expression was unreadable. “I’ll write to the Potters.”

Lily exhaled sharply as Alice left the room. She’d done what she could. Now she had only to hope for the best.

_Interlude: Ledcameroch Crescent_

Mary sat cross-legged in her mother’s garden, humming to herself. It had been a productive day, beginning with errands and ending in a long, satisfying weeding session. As Andrew had complained when she’d returned from Portree, her absence had meant he’d done all the chores around the house. So it was her turn. 

She didn’t mind the physical work, which might have surprised those who knew her. But there was something very soothing about being alone amongst the flowers and vegetables, going through one patch at a time. Mary didn’t have a record on, or the radio. She was simply alone with her thoughts. 

That did not last long. 

She heard the loud noise of Apparition, and sat up straight. Who would drop in unannounced like that—

“Oh my _God,_ answer my bloody owls!” Germaine said from behind her. 

Mary swivelled around. “Germaine? Oh, I’ve been in the garden all day—”

“Yeah, I can see that! Get up, idiot, you’ve missed so much.” Germaine seized her arm and began tugging her to her feet, which was a bit of a Herculean task considering that Mary was resisting and Germaine was far smaller than her.

“You’re going to yank my arm off, _Jesus—”_

“Then get up so we can get to the wireless—”

“Would you just tell me what’s going on?”

Germaine stopped pulling. “Doe and Lily went to Alistair Longbottom’s trial and then there was an accident and then the Ministry was locked down again and they’re still inside and Abigail won’t answer my owls but maybe she’s just busy—”

Mary jumped up. “Right, we need the wireless.”

"That's what I've been _saying."_

* * *

_iii. Personnel Changes_

Doe had been instructed not to eavesdrop on the Marauders, which was fine, since she was trying to decide how best to ask the room’s U&E members about broadcasting spells. Except, she felt too frazzled to think. She was hovering a few feet behind Mari and the wixen who’d joined her as negotiators. As a result she could hear their argument with the DMLE officials, _and_ the Marauders’ whispers. Not a very conducive brainstorming environment.

“How do you remember who’s got who?” Peter was saying. “You don’t have a list on you, do you?”

“No,” Remus said, “too risky. I’ve got the loop memorised.”

Sirius chuckled. “If you told Prongs that, he’d try to learn Occlumency.”

“He says he’s figured it out already,” said Peter.

“Yeah, we’ll see.”

“Who’s he got now?”

“Just — one moment,” said Remus. _“There.”_

Sirius whistled. Peter murmured, “Damn.”

“Did you plan that?” Sirius said.

“Are you joking? I couldn’t have. Not with all the moving pieces,” Remus said.

“You planned it, then. You wanted to cancel out last term—”

“How does this _cancel that out?”_

“I can hear you,” Doe called over her shoulder. “If you don’t want me to know who has me for tag, you’ll have to be loads quieter.”

“Buzz off, then,” Sirius said, not missing a beat. “Go talk to someone about the, you know.”

She glared at him and inched closer to the U&E group. It was approaching five now, and the room had split into two extremes — those who were engaged in bargaining with the Aurors, and those who had given up and decided to sit and wait. Doe thought it was only a matter of time before the latter decided their loo privileges outweighed taking a stand, and began a new layer of infighting. Possibly Mari predicted this too, because she was still insisting on the idea of toilet breaks though she had been the one to put up the second barrier in the first place.

On the other side of the barrier, the DMLE contingent had undergone some changes too. Gone was Kieran O’Malley, and the Aurors seemed to have had a shift change. Not that they mattered at present, because they had a proper professional taking the lead now.

With his nose up against the barrier, the crisis management wizard should have been a lot more intimidating. But, Doe supposed, in his line of work he benefited from appearing non-threatening.

 _Non-threatening_ was the perfect way to describe Robin Weddle. He was probably in his late twenties, but he appeared a lot younger. His thick dark hair was reminiscent of McCartney in the 60s, and, combined with the dusting of freckles across his nose and the upward slant of his eyebrows, made him look rather like a small boy whose mother was fond of the Beatles. 

“Regardless, if you need the loo, you’ll have to take the barrier down,” he was saying, his voice slow and measured. “This discussion can’t go anywhere until we agree on that. You’ve seen the shift change. I don’t have much time before the acting head tells me he doesn't negotiate.”

“Please don’t condescend to me, Mr. Weddle,” Mari said, equally even-keeled. “We'll drop the shield if the Aurors decrease their presence, and stop trying to manhandle us—”

“Mari, can I have a word?” Doe whispered.

The older witch hesitated, and Doe could practically feel a “not now” coming on. But instead Mari nodded, held up a hand to Robin Weddle, and wound through the clump of people to a quieter spot.

“What’s up?” she said, turning to face Doe.

“My friend and I were listening to a radio broadcast, and it came from a restroom,” Doe said, deciding this was no time for preamble. “If someone here knows a broadcast spell and we got loo privileges, we might be able to get word to...the WWN, or the U&E people who’re outside, or something.”

Mari’s brows rose. “Clever. How do you know it works in all the loos, and not just the on the courtroom level?”

Well, she didn’t know. “If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. My friends are trying a different method too, so we’ve not got all our fairy wings in the same cauldron.”

“Maybe...the wards tend to be thinner around the plumbing,” Mari said thoughtfully. “You’re right, Dorcas. It’s worth a try. I do know the broadcast spell, but every station has its own password, you see. Or any old geezer could shout on the WWN News Hour.”

“Oh. So...we couldn’t put it on the WWN.” Doe frowned. Back to square one, then.

“No, we couldn’t.” But Mari didn’t seem put out at all. “Listen, it has to be you, all right? They’re not going to trust that I need a wee.”

“But—” Doe blinked, unsure how that addressed the main stumbling block. “They know my parents.”

“The one guy who knew your parents is gone,” Mari pointed out. “The others might not — or at least they might be willing to overlook that, because of your age.”

“But I still don’t know the password,” said Doe.

“I’m giving you one,” said Mari patiently. “The incantation is _dissemino radiophonicus,_ have you got that? _Finite_ will end it.”

She nodded, turning the phrase over in her mind. “I think so.”

“And the movement’s not fancy. Just point at your throat.” Mari was looking at her very intently. “Don’t muck up the pronunciation, or you’ll hurt yourself.”

 _“Dissemino radiophonicus,”_ Doe recited. “I’ve got it.”

“The password is—” She leaned close to whisper in her ear. “Sisters.”

“Okay. Okay, I’m ready.”

Mari stepped back and gestured for her to lead the way. Palms now sweating, Doe approached the barrier for the first time since she’d spotted Kieran. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Weddle,” she said, the trepidation in her voice not an act. “Could I step out to the restroom?”

“That’s what we’re _negotiating,”_ said one of the Aurors indignantly.

“Come on, mate, she’s just a kid,” muttered another.

Doe made her eyes wide and innocent. “I’ll be quick. And one of you can come with me, right?” There was only one female Auror in their group now, and Doe met her gaze hopefully.

Robin Weddle was nodding. “I suppose there’s no harm. You’re a student, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Great. We’ll get you a hole in the barrier, and you can turn over your wand—”

“No!” Doe said, too loudly. 

Weddle arched an eyebrow. “Is something the matter?”

“Y-Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I need my wand.” _Shit,_ she thought, _think much, much faster._

“Is Mari over here asking you to do something for her?” Weddle asked gently.

“No, it’s not like that…” Doe glanced behind. Mari had wisely backed off, and was speaking with one of the U&E wixen.

“You can be honest with me,” he said. 

She did believe him. Perhaps it was the tactic here, sending in rude and boorish Aurors so that Weddle’s demeanour struck an immediate, likeable contrast. But it was hard to tell herself that she should not trust him. He seemed so _normal._

“I _am_ being honest,” Doe said, after a moment’s pause. “No one’s making me do anything. I just...I need it because…” She swallowed, ducked her head. “I-It’s my time of month, and I don’t have any sanitary products on me, so I need to Transfigure myself something—”

As predicted, his look of serious adult concern gave way at once to embarrassment. He composed himself quickly, but Doe knew she had succeeded even before he said anything. 

“Of course. I’ll get my colleagues to let you through.” He backed away at once.

Doe chewed at the inside of her cheek so she would not give any indication of her triumph. If he had ever experienced a period, she knew, he would simply have asked one of the other Aurors to fetch her something. The whole department was down the corridor, and surely _one_ of them had a sanitary napkin. But she was lucky.

“Auror Davis will take you to the restroom,” Weddle said, beckoning her towards a specific spot in the barrier to his left. Its sheen had faded a little, making a rectangular shape about her height. Doe stood in front of it and waited for Mari to remove their end of the shield.

The air became clear. Doe stepped through. She was out. 

She exhaled, some of her nerves fading. It was taxing, being cooped up in one room all evening — she hadn’t noticed _how_ taxing. 

The one female Auror, Davis, pointed Doe out the door. “Straight down the corridor, last door on your left,” she said, her footsteps close behind. 

“Thanks.” 

The corridor was empty, quiet, lined with doors. Doe supposed some of them were the other holding rooms, and Lily and James were here somewhere. But there was no actual activity in the hall, no sign that hundreds of people were behind those closed doors.

“In there,” Davis said, and Doe stepped into the toilet.

To her dismay, the Auror followed, stationing herself at the basins. Her posture was relaxed, but her wand was in her hand — and Doe had no doubt that she was meant to notice as much. 

“Go on,” said Davis.

“Yeah. I’m going.” She picked the stall furthest from the sinks, sitting down on the pot. If Weddle had passed on the excuse she’d given him, Davis wouldn’t be surprised to hear _some_ spellcasting. Doe tore herself a long strip of toilet paper and Transfigured it into a paper giraffe.

This next part would require some finagling. Pointing her wand at the stall door in what she reckoned was the Auror’s direction, Doe whispered, _“Muffliato.”_

She couldn’t act until she’d tested it. Many times Doe had taken the spell for granted: gossiping with Mary in the common room, talking in class, whispering in the library. But to do so now would be impossibly dangerous. As much as every instinct in her body screamed at her to stay quiet, Doe drew in a breath and started to sing the first song that came to mind — that Seven Sickles one that was always on the radio.

 _“She’s got it all — she’s got the boys strung along—”_ Her voice wavered, echoing in the empty restroom. She was certain that Davis would tell her to shut up. _“It’s a spell, it’s a glamour, it’s a siren song—”_

But Davis didn’t say a word.

“Excuse me, could you come over here for a minute?” Doe said, just to be safe.

Still nothing.

Doe let out a shuddering breath and jerked to her feet. She couldn’t do this sitting down. She had to get the spell right. Angling her wand at her throat, she squeezed her eyes shut and whispered, _“Dissemino radiophonicus.”_

She didn't feel any different — but when she inhaled shakily, she could hear an echo of it in her ears, as if she were listening to a tape of herself. “Sisters,” she said, nearly botching the English word after having managed Latin. 

It was either working or it wasn’t. People outside could either hear it or they could not. More stressed than she’d ever been, Dorcas Walker wiped her damp palms on her thighs. 

It struck her, all of a sudden, that Mari had asked how she knew the spell would work outside of the courtroom restrooms. But Doe hadn’t said anything about Level Ten. She hadn’t even mentioned Sonorus, nor had Mari implied she'd heard the show too. So _why had Mari assumed she’d been talking about the courtroom_ loos? She shook the thought away. Davis would wonder if she took too long.

Then she began to speak.

The first thing Alice St. Martin did when she’d made it to her desk was pull out two scraps of loose parchment. She’d never written so quickly in her life — nor with such little attention, considering the letters were addressed to two strangers. Signing off, she ran for the owls, which were caged in a separate room.

Orders from Crouch had been coming in and out via owl all afternoon, and the birds were the only open channel of communication between the Ministry and its employees outside the building. So Alice’s letters ought not to raise any eyebrows. For a moment Alice wondered what would happen if she were caught.

The Auror Office hadn’t expressly been told to keep silent, but implicit in their informal lockdown was the idea that they shouldn’t be passing information. And so, even if she wouldn’t be punished, she might be snubbed by her superiors...just as some of the Aurors had begun to avoid Frank, as if the accusations levelled at his father were contagious. 

But Alice was not afraid. She had too strong a sense of conviction, and she was certain that this was the right thing to do. James and Lily were of age, but they were still young. In any case, she hadn’t signed the letters with _her_ name… 

Before she could send one to the Potters and the other to Petunia Evans, Alice realised that one of the owls was hooting more insistently at her than the others.

Frowning, she untied the letter it was still carrying. It was addressed to her, she realised, but of course it wouldn’t have entered the bullpen. The owls were trained to avoid the office spaces in the Ministry, as they’d long since learned the droppings-related consequences _that_ would have.

She unfurled the scroll of parchment, and something fell out of it. A pamphlet, mint-green and creased; its front cover read _We Care For Your Loved Ones._ The subtitle beneath was _adjusting to life in the Janus Thickey Ward._ Alice frowned and turned the pamphlet over.

Its purpose was far clearer now. Scrawled across the back of the pamphlet, in Frank’s familiar writing, was a message. _I’m sorry. There’s a lot I need to say to you. But I’m sorry. Please find me after all this. F._

“What on earth,” Alice mumbled — not because she was surprised, that her boyfriend, no, _ex-_ boyfriend, was apologising to her. But it was such an abrupt note. “You had the whole bloody pamphlet, Frank,” she groused.

Then she glanced at the scroll of parchment and stifled a gasp. She had never seen it before — as a witness in the Longbottom trial she had been summarily recused from the investigation — but she knew what it was once she’d begun reading. 

_Honourable members of the Wizengamot,_ it started, _as the senior-most Auror and head of the Auror Office, it is my responsibility to oversee all its investigations. Rarely am I forced to contradict the findings of my own office, but given that this case has been a cross-departmental collaboration on which my Aurors were overruled, I find it necessary to formally register my opinion on the proceedings._

_In my professional opinion Alistair Longbottom, the defendant, exhibits textbook signs of the Imperius Curse, including loss of memory, confusion surrounding chronology, and uncharacteristic or unusual behaviour. Over the course of the trial you will hear from several Aurors who can testify to the high likelihood that Mr. Longbottom was not acting of his own free will. Nevertheless, I hope that this letter can add some weight to that testimony…_

At the bottom of the letter was a signature, though not one that Alice had expected. _Julius Fawley, Head of the Auror Office_ was a space left blank. Instead a different hand had written, _Signed, Alastor Moody, interim head of the Auror Office, dated August 5th, 1977._

Her hand trembled. The Wizengamot needed to see this at once — except, its members had been divided into multiple rooms. She could easily hand it over to Agnes Burke...but Alice didn’t even trust the Chief Warlock as far as she could throw her. 

Frank had put his father’s fate in her hands. He trusted her not just to do what was right, but to do _all that she could._ Alice felt a petty prickle of triumph — there, this was proof of it all, after his silly self-sacrificial nonsense the week before. When his back was against a wall he would always count on her. She was full to the brim with...well, with love. 

Alice heard Lily Evans’s voice in her head, saying _Dumbledore._ She shoved the other two letters in her pocket and ran for another piece of parchment. She had just finished tying off the note — attaching Moody’s declaration to it — when a voice interrupted her.

 _“There_ you are.”

She whirled around, heart in her mouth. “Kieran! Merlin, you startled me.”

The owl took off over his shoulder. There was nothing he could do now to stop it. He was frowning, though.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Marlene asked me to owl her dad,” Alice lied. “You know how he is, he gets so antsy when there’s action at the Ministry without him…”

Kieran’s frown remained. “Why couldn’t Marlene have owled her dad?”

“Because there’s a pain-in-the-arse MLEP officer in our room who won’t listen to a word I say. At least she’s a full Auror.”

“That’s why I’ve been searching for you everywhere,” said Kieran, apparently accepting this excuse. “They’re promoting us.”

“They’re — what?” Now that Alice knew to look for it, she realised the training crest on his robes had vanished. He was not lying. She shook her head, as if to dislodge the confusion blooming there. “What— when—?”

“Crouch sent in the order. Travers wants to see you now so he can take your crest off.”

She grimaced. If she left with Kieran now she would be hard-pressed to sneak away and send the other letters… “I’d almost rather put off my promotion until Monday,” she joked. “So Moody can do it, I mean.”

Kieran snorted. “Moody, Travers, they’re all the same. What difference does it make?”

“Travers is creepy. Have you seen his smile?”

“Merlin forbid a man _smile_ at you, St. Martin.”

Alice resisted the urge to punch him in the face. “I only meant— I shadowed Moody, and it would be nice if he could be the one to promote me to full Auror.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” With a flourish, Kieran gestured for her to lead the way. 

She had no choice but to leave the owls behind, then. Alice squared her shoulders and strode off to find Travers. Ready or not, the very real future was coming for her.

_Interlude: Doge Hall_

Ruth Walker had never been comfortable with the palatial size and decor of Elphias Doge’s manor home. But the safest places to gather were not leased rooms in Diagon Alley — no, best for Unity and Equality to convene in someone’s residence. The wards around Doge Hall were old and strong, so potent that she could feel them like a shiver down her spine when she stepped out of the fireplace. _That_ was why they were all clustered there that evening.

But her nervousness made the experience even more wrought. She could not stop fidgeting.

“She’ll be fine,” her husband murmured.

“We shouldn’t have left her,” Ruth said.

“She’s _fine,_ Ruth. There are plenty of others on the inside. And she’s with her friends.”

It was almost five o’clock. There was still no proper word out of the Ministry — just that there had been an accident at the trial, and security protocols were in place. All non-DMLE employees had been evacuated. They had set the precedent for it with the shutdown of the previous month, Ruth thought bitterly. 

She stood. “I can’t keep sitting down.” Squeezing Joe’s hand, she crossed to the fireplace, which was now smouldering embers. They had to have it lit in case anyone came via the Floo. But Doge’s cooling charms were doing a good job of keeping the luxuriously-furnished room from becoming a furnace.

Ruth moved past the fireplace to where a handful of younger U&E members were fiddling with a wireless. One blonde witch was scanning from one station to the next, pausing momentarily to hear any breaking news, then moving on, whispering a password when necessary. Ruth stilled, letting the snatches of sound wash over her.

Then she was leaping into action. “Wait,” she said, “wait, go back to that channel for a moment—”

The witch — Olivia McKinnon, that was her name — nodded, wide-eyed, and whispered a password to the wireless. She increased the volume. Ruth knew she had been right.

 _“We’re on Level Two of the Ministry.”_ Doe’s voice was steady, though it crackled here and there. _“They’ve divided us into holding areas and have groups of Aurors and MLEP officers watching us. The Aurors are understaffed, because of…”_ Here she faltered. _“Because of what happened at the trial. Some of them are in hospital. By and large we’re not hurt._

 _“If anyone’s listening, write to the_ Prophet _and the WWN. They’re not willing to release us, but they aren’t charging us with anything either. With external pressure they will let us go. Or...we’ll spend twenty-four hours in lockup, I suppose. Not the end of the world, except…_

_“My room’s stopped cooperating with the Aurors. This Travers bloke, he’s in charge of the Aurors right now, and I don’t think the crisis management wizard likes him very much. I don’t think there will be fighting but...I’d rather it didn’t come to that.”_

The U&E members had all stopped to listen; now they jumped into action, talking of whom to owl and what to do. 

_“Er, anyway… I think that’s the most important thing. Don’t let the Ministry keep us in the dark, and all that.”_ A pause; a muttered curse. _“I have to go before they suspect. But, um, Mum and Dad if you’re listening, I’m okay. Sorry again for being a brat. Just — I’m sorry. I love you. Don’t worry about me.”_

The broadcast cut out. Ruth realised she had a hand pressed to her mouth. Joe squeezed her shoulder. Neither of them had to say a word.

“Time check,” Lily mumbled.

“You asked thirty seconds ago,” James said.

They had abandoned the benches at the back of the room, and instead sat side by side against the wall near the barrier. A wizard nearby had fallen asleep and was snoring loudly. Marlene had left shortly after James had returned from the loo. Alice still hadn’t come back. 

James and Lily had spent the better part of an hour fretting about what might have happened. Eventually they’d realised there was little use in that. It was exhausting and unproductive. Besides, whispering to one another only drew the attention of the older, more suspicious Aurors who were watching them now. 

“Did not.”

“Did.”

“Is it six twenty-six, then?”

He glanced at his watch. “Twenty-seven.”

“Aha. So it’s been more than thirty seconds.”

“I rounded down earlier.”

“Every minute counts, James.”

“Well aware, thanks.” He glanced at her. She arched an eyebrow. “That was your question.”

She groaned. “You can’t take away my turn every time I ask you for the time.”

“Shouldn’t have broken your watch, then.” He grinned.

“If we had our wands, it would all be moot.” Lily sighed, pulling her knees up to her chest. “You’re a big believer in fixing watches by magic, anyhow.”

“You’re the sensible one so often,” James said. “I have to lessen the burden occasionally.”

She smothered a smile. “Right. Lessening the burden. _That’s_ what you do,” she teased. James gave a modest shrug. Shaking her head, Lily looked down at her watch, tracing its band. “What d’you think next year will be like?”

He tilted his head in thought. “Different, I hope.”

“Last year was better than the year before.”

“Undoubtedly,” said James. “But...well, there were the attacks—”

“I’ll give you that.”

“—and the Hogsmeade murders—”

“All right…”

“—and Mary’s diary that wasn’t her diary—”

She was beginning to laugh. “Okay, James…”

“—and Mulciber—”

Lily pulled a face. “And the Dungbomb you threw at Mulciber.”

“You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“No.”

He made a big show of rolling his eyes. “Anyway, last year was a flaming mess.”

“We did become friends, though.”

“And then we _un_ became friends.”

“But then we became friends again.”

James waved a hand. “Technically speaking, that happened during the holidays. I dunno if last year should get a boost because of it.”

“And — oi, Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup!”

He stared at her, incredulous. “That _did_ not count. That was worse than losing.”

“Come on. You got to hold the trophy and everything,” Lily protested.

“Very briefly, and there was no celebratory hoisting. Y’know, because our professor had just been sent to St. Mungo’s.”

“A win’s a win.”

 _“No,_ not if you don’t even step on the field!”

“Right. In Quidditch. The game in which you could have all your Chasers fall asleep on their brooms and still win assuming the Snitch is caught in time.” 

James shook his head. “I can’t believe you right now.” They fell silent. _“That_ was your question.” At her questioning look, he said, “What do I think next year will be like. That was your question.”

Lily scoffed, but did not try to argue again. “If you had to be trapped in the Ministry for twenty-four hours, who would you choose to come with you?”

He sighed. “Oh, this is going to be awkward…”

“Ha _ha.”_

“...I’d have to say Bertram Aubrey. Stand-up bloke, all-round handy guy—”

“Ha. _Ha.”_

He wondered how she might react if he said, straight-faced, _you._ She was not so bad. She probably figured in his top five.

“Sirius,” James said, “that’s my real answer.”

“Boring,” Lily declared. “I could’ve guessed that.”

“Then you should’ve asked a smarter question. Go on, who would you pick?”

She snorted. He grinned. “What was that about a smarter question?” 

James could have kept the conversation going, but he simply waited for her to answer. Lily grew contemplative, her wide smile fading to a small curve of the lips. She was almost always thinking, he knew, her mind flying at breakneck speed, but sometimes you could see it playing out across her face. The smallest twitch of her mouth as she considered something funny. The lift of her brows when she came to a conclusion that took her by surprise. 

He had always associated her with being a good girl — he wasn’t alone in that. But despite her cleverness, her responsibility, her kindness, she had a certain wry mischief. She simply had the good sense to pause before she spoke it.

James was so busy turning over this revelation in his mind that he missed her actual answer. “Er, what?”

“You weren’t even listening. Sara,” said Lily. “She’s pushy, well-connected, and fun to be around. Who knows, we might get out in less than twenty-four hours.”

He frowned. He was quite sure she hadn’t said Sara at first.

“Oi, that’s not fair. I didn’t know we could bypass the twenty-four hours thing entirely. Then I could just trap myself with Harold Minchum.”

She shrugged, beaming. “You should’ve picked a smarter answer.”

“Any Hogwarts students in here?” A third Auror had just entered the room, scanning its occupants.

James and Lily looked at each other, then up at him. “Yes,” said Lily, “what’s happening?”

“Interrogation,” was all he said in response. “Get up.”

She crossed her arms. “Can we have our wands back?”

“You’ll get them if you cooperate. Come on.”

James hesitated, feeling a flicker of trepidation. Not that he thought anything was going to happen to them, but...they were wandless, Lily was concussed (even if her symptoms had been treated), and he had no idea how to get from the corridor back to the lifts. But what could they do but follow?

“It’ll be fine.”

He startled, and realised Lily was speaking to him. James nodded, a little off-kilter, and gestured for her to go first. Once in the corridor, they both let out sighs of relief. The mere feeling of being outside that bloody room was enough to put a spring in James’s step.

Even though they weren’t out of the woods yet. Far from it. 

“Who d’you reckon will interrogate us?” whispered Lily.

“Dunno. One of the high-up Aurors, probably.” He tried not to look or sound worried. “I don’t think Crouch would bother with us.”

She nodded, her face set in a grim, determined mask.

The corridors were quiet at first, but soon they could hear voices. The source was soon apparent: a pale-haired man, slim and short, was speaking to someone out of sight. 

“—quite ridiculous to think that _students_ are running around causing mayhem. Quite abhorrent.” Though the man was speaking of strong emotions, he remained composed. “It would never have happened — why, even twenty years ago.”

“Maybe, Abraxas. The way I see it, these are young people taking an interest in the goings-on that will affect their daily lives. That already _do_ affect their daily lives, I daresay.”

The man — Abraxas Malfoy, James realised with a twinge of distaste — shook his head. “They ought to be locked up. They’re adults, aren’t they? They ought to be treated as such…”

“As long as the Aurors are busy managing children, they will not be able to supervise Wizengamot proceedings,” replied the other, “and the Wizengamot needs to be assembled if you are to be my colleague at the ICW.”

“Is that…” Lily trailed off, wide-eyed. 

The Auror who’d been escorting them came to a stop just before the corner. “Mr. Malfoy, Professor Dumbledore, sir. I’ve got some of the students for you.”

James had never felt quite so relieved to hear Dumbledore’s name. So long as they were being interrogated by the headmaster, and not that creep Malfoy… 

“Ah, very good,” Dumbledore said, beaming at the sight of them. He wore robes of brilliant lime-green; James blinked several times at the sight of them. Dumbledore noticed, of course. “I’m fond of the colour. It’s only a matter of time before I’m too old for such flashy numbers.”

Nonplussed, James found his tongue first. “You’re never too old for that, sir.”

“Well said, Mr. Potter, well said. If you both would follow me, we’re set up in one of the Wizengamot offices. I wouldn’t want to keep Mr. Black waiting.” He gestured down a long corridor that did not look very different from all the other corridors they had passed through.

James brightened at the name; he and Lily fell into step on either side of Dumbledore. “You’ve got Pa— er, Sirius?”

“Oh, yes, your classmates are already there. There were a considerable number of attendees who were not underage but were still students.”

“Seventh years,” said Lily. “Or, almost seventh years.”

“Quite. I have to say I was surprised.” Dumbledore pushed his spectacles up his long nose. “That so many students should congregate in London, I mean, and should think it a good use of their summer holiday to watch a Wizengamot trial.”

“Of course it’s good use, sir.” Lily sounded a touch indignant; James couldn’t see her face.

“You mistake me, Miss Evans. I don’t disagree with the idea. I’m surprised — or should I say, impressed? — that students think the same way.”

“We deserve a little more credit,” said James, “no disrespect intended.”

“Not at all.” Dumbledore didn’t look offended; in fact, he seemed rather pleased. “The answers I’ve received so far have been...varied, to say the least. Some mention of a WWN protest in Hogsmeade...and a game that’s been bringing them into the city?”

James assumed an expression of polite curiosity. “Oh, cool.”

They arrived at a waiting room of sorts — and it was full of familiar faces. Dorcas sat up at the sight of them, relief written all over her; Peter and Remus, beside her, brightened as well. There were a dozen more students from their year, across houses. 

They sat in groups he’d never seen before either: Ravenclaw Lottie Fenwick, her face pinched with worry, was hand-in-hand with Hufflepuff Kemi Kikelomo. Emmeline Vance, her jaw clenched as if she was staring down a firing squad instead of Albus Dumbledore, was not with her best friend Amelia (former? James could never keep it straight), who was in fact nowhere in sight, but with fellow Ravenclaw Bridget Summeridge. Gaurav Singh, Terrence Mulvey, and Michael Meadowes sat in a circle of chairs with — James squinted in disbelief — Slytherin Wendy Lane and Hufflepuff Gordon Zhou. 

“Where’s Sirius?” said James.

Everyone turned towards at the closed door at the far end of the room.

“I was in the middle of speaking with him,” Dumbledore said genially, “when I stepped out to speak with Mr. Malfoy here.”

The odious Mr. Malfoy had indeed come along. “Might I sit in, Albus? I’d be curious to hear…”

James clenched his hands into fists. The headmaster simply smiled. 

“I’m speaking with them in my capacity as their headmaster, Abraxas. The ICW has no jurisdiction over ongoing DMLE investigations.”

Abraxas Malfoy nodded stiffly. “I’ll see myself out.” 

“Have a seat,” Dumbledore said to Lily and James. “I’ll be with you soon.”

_Interlude: Burnley Street, part two_

Dinner was quiet, but not bad. At least, not so far. Petunia had fudged some parts of the recipe and substituted things from the shops, but she didn’t think Vernon had noticed. Her mother would have been dismayed at the idea of not making everything by hand. Petunia tried not to think about that.

And Lily hadn’t come up much, as a topic of discussion. That was understandable; she hadn’t liked Vernon, and the feeling was obviously mutual. It worried Petunia, though, to think that her boyfriend didn’t care for her only living family member. What would happen if — when — she told him about the...magic? How would he react?

There were no more favourable relatives he would be associating with by marrying her. Just Lily.

But she didn’t allow herself to worry. No, she was eating, and enjoying Vernon’s company. 

As she rose from the table to fetch the dessert from the fridge, something tapped against the window. Petunia froze. Vernon didn’t seem to have noticed, though, so she took another few steps—

“What was that?” said Vernon.

She could _see_ it now. That was the problem. There, in the sitting room window — the front window, no less! — an owl tap-tap-tapped at the glass impatiently.

“Would you mind getting the pudding from the fridge?” said Petunia, sitting down quickly.

His brows furrowed. “’Course. Is everything all right?”

“Just — I’m just a little dizzy. I’ll have a sip of water, it’ll pass.”

Vernon disappeared into the kitchen. Petunia got up and hurried to the window. 

_“Go away!”_ she hissed through the glass. Even magical owls could not speak English, she guessed, because it simply continued its knocking. “Shoo!”

“Petunia?”

She whirled around to see Vernon staring, mouth open, pudding dish in hand. This was how he’d be looking at her, when she told him her sister was a witch… Petunia swallowed hard. “There’s — an owl at the window.”

“I’ll scare it off,” he said, setting down the dish definitively. 

At first she thought this was the best solution. He had a chance to play the hero, and the owl would go away… But as soon as Vernon opened the window it became apparent that they’d made a mistake. 

The owl charged into the sitting room, flying around in a frenzy as Vernon tried in vain to catch it in his jacket. 

“I’ve got it, don’t worry!” he panted.

It deftly avoided him, knocked over a vase — Petunia shrieked — shed feathers all across the uncovered pudding, and landed in front of her. And then it stuck its leg out. Upon the leg was tied a letter, and it bore her name.

Petunia felt ill. With trembling fingers she untied the letter — for it was clear the bird wouldn’t leave until she did — but did not read it. She could see Vernon watching her. The owl picked itself up and flew back through the open window.

“What the devil was that?” said Vernon, scowling at the slow-darkening sky. 

What could she say? Petunia was near tears. She had a letter in her hands that meant she could not deny all knowledge of the situation. Some explanation had to be given… Something, _anything…_

“It’s...my sister,” said Petunia at last.

* * *

_iv. Interrogations_

“You’re certain you saw nothing?” Dumbledore said.

“Positive,” said Sirius. He was glib with McGonagall, but found it difficult to be flippant with Dumbledore anymore. Not since the incident in fifth year, anyway. 

“Did you participate in the protest, Mr. Black?”

He frowned. “What, did I stand up and say unity and equality and whatever? Course. It’s not like they were asking much of me.”

More inane questions were thrown his way — or so it seemed to Sirius. When Dumbledore dismissed him, he rose to go.

“A moment.”

Sirius paused.

“You know Abraxas Malfoy, yes?”

He stiffened. “Unfortunately.” 

“I’d advise you to wait outside, then. All the students will be let out at once.”

Sirius stared at the headmaster, trying to decipher what he was _really_ saying. “Right. Yeah. I wasn’t planning on leaving without my mates, anyway.”

“It was impossible to make anything out. I mean, the moment Moody cast his shield we were all running,” Dorcas said. She had to sit on her hands to keep from fidgeting. 

Dumbledore nodded. “It must have been frightening.”

“Only when I realised I’d been separated from Lily.” Doe sighed. “Not that it was a walk in the park otherwise, but...it could’ve been a good deal worse.”

“And did you participate in the protest, Miss Walker?”

She stilled. When someone asked you if you’d been to a protest, you said no. Her parents had taught her that much. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“The demonstration,” said Dumbledore patiently. “Surely, given your parents’ involvement…”

So he knew. Doe cringed at the idea of lying to any authority figure, but she made herself say, “I’m not sure I should talk about that.”

Dumbledore chortled. “Have you considered a career in magical law?”

“A crisis management wizard, did you say?”

Remus frowned, trying to remember if that was his exact title. “I think that’s what they called him.”

Dumbledore gave a meditative _hum._ “And what did you think of him?”

“I...I don’t know what you mean, sir.” Was this some kind of trick question?

“Exactly what I’m asking, Mr. Lupin. What did you think of him?”

Remus stared at the far wall. He hadn’t particularly had an opinion of Robin Weddle. Dorcas was the better person to ask. 

“He was fine, I suppose.”

“Fine?”

“Fine.”

“Miss Walker tells me you were hurt.”

Lily grimaced. “Well — yes — sort of. I mean, I was concussed—” Seeing the concern on Dumbledore’s face, she hurried on. “But Alice St. Martin, the Auror, she fixed my headache. Not the injury, though.”

He nodded solemnly. “I suggest a stop by St. Mungo’s on your way home, Miss Evans.”

“My sister is probably really worried about me,” she admitted. Talking with James, she’d almost forgotten her failed missive to Petunia. Her sister would be twice as angry that she hadn’t sent word… “Alice was going to send word to her, but I don’t think she had the chance.”

“What gives you that idea?”

She started. “We...asked Alice to owl you, professor…“ 

“And here I am,” said Dumbledore. “There was a good deal to sort out with the Wizengamot, but I do recall Auror St. Martin stepping out to send some owls.”

Her shoulders slumped in relief. “Oh, thank God! Oh — thanks so much, sir—”

“I should be thanking you. It’s because of you that I was called here in the first place, is it?”

Lily flushed. “It was James’s idea, really. And I’m sure someone else would’ve thought of it eventually.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps not.” His eyes twinkled behind his half-moon glasses. “At least allow me to fix your concussion, if you won’t accept my thanks.”

_Interlude: Waiting Room B, Ministry of Magic_

When Lily left the office, calling in James to speak with Dumbledore, she found the closest empty seat was beside Sirius. 

Remus was in quiet conversation with Emmeline Vance; Doe was laughing about something with Michael Meadowes. Peter was with Lottie and Kemi. Sirius was alone.

She sat down beside him anyway. After the day they’d had, she didn’t think an argument with him would be forthcoming. Neither of them spoke for a while.

“Have you checked your token?” said Sirius at last. “Moony didn’t get a chance to do it in the morning, so he updated them when we were trying to stick it to the man.”

It was Friday, Lily realised with a start. She’d forgotten; everything felt so far removed from the ten or so minutes she’d spent fiddling with the Bonneville with Sirius. She searched for her pockets before remembering that her skirt had none.

“Left it at home,” she said.

Sirius nodded in sympathy. “Better hope no one here has you, then. There’s seven people left in the game.”

“I like my odds.” Lily had been watching at the rest of the room as they spoke; now she turned to face him. “Why did you tell me to join the game?”

“What?” He was impossible to read; his expression was perfectly cool.

“The game,” she said again. “In the last week of school, you told me I should play. Or, I suppose you told me I shouldn’t _not_ play.”

Sirius sighed. “Prongs comes first.” She opened her mouth to respond, but he held up a hand. “Hang on, hear me out. Prongs comes first. But — you’re still one of us.”

“One of us,” she repeated uncomprehendingly.

“Yeah, one of us,” he said, impatient. “Us, the sixth-slash-seventh years Gryffindors. Don’t look so sodding shocked.”

She did not, in fact, look shocked. She was smiling. “Thanks.”

“Whatever. Just don’t fuck him up, all right?”

They both glanced at the closed door, behind which James sat. Lily wasn’t entirely sure what Sirius meant.

“You give me too much credit if you think I could,” she said finally.

He studied her closely. “Yeah, okay.”

“That will be all, Mr. Potter,” said Dumbledore at last. “I believe you’re the last, yes?” When James nodded, he said, “Excellent. I expect an Auror will be waiting to escort you all to the Atrium. There should be no more trouble.”

“And...everyone else being held, they’re being released too?”

“As we speak, I believe.”

He stood, stretching. “Thanks, professor.”

“No thanks necessary.” 

As James reached for the doorknob, Dumbledore called, “Congratulations.”

He stopped short, frowning. “Congrats for what?”

Dumbledore’s bushy brows rose. “Of course. You’ve been here all day, have you?”

“Yes…” James had never questioned the headmaster’s judgment, batty though he appeared at times. Now, he couldn’t deny that he was concerned.

“Ah,” said Dumbledore. “That explains it.” And he said nothing more.

* * *

_v. The Letter, part one_

James was the last of the boys to step out of the fireplace and into Fleamont’s office. He was promptly gathered into his mother’s arms.

“—demented, honestly, first I receive an _unsigned letter_ saying you’re all right — how ominous! — and then an Auror owls to say you’re in Ministry custody being interrogated—”

His voice somewhat muffled, James said, “The letter was Alice St. Martin, Mum. And the interrogation was only Dumbledore.”

“Only Dumbledore,” Euphemia scoffed. “I know the gravity of the situation is lost on you because of the number of times that poor man has had to haul you into his office, but your father and I are under no illusions as to—”

“Honestly, just tell me you love me and were worried about me so we can move on!”

Euphemia scoffed once more, and said something that sounded like _the sheer audacity,_ but at last she released him from her embrace. She kept one hand on his shoulder, though, as she steered him towards the dining room.

“You could at least have told us you would miss dinner,” she said drily.

James started. “Shit _fu—_ I mean, oh _no…”_

“Nicely done.”

“But Marissa—” She didn’t know he’d been at the Ministry. She didn’t know anything at all. No matter his reservations about this relationship, James knew it was a bad thing indeed to have stood her up.

“She owled us, actually,” Euphemia said. “Told us it was too busy a night at the _Prophet_ for her to leave. She apologised a lot.”

He let out a breath. “That’s good. I mean — not that she’s not coming, just that…”

His mother gave him a look that told him he wasn’t fooling anyone. “Anyway, I’ve told the boys to stay. Someone needs to eat my fish curry.”

“I’d eat all your fish curry,” James protested.

“That’s why I asked them to stay. It’s important that you, as an only child, are socialised to share.”

He rolled his eyes. “Hilarious, Mum.” If they were skating past the issue of Marissa, though, he would be glad for it.

No sooner had he thought this than he noticed Euphemia’s gaze turn steely. “And it’s not good of you to lead a girl on.”

James sighed. “I’m not leading her on. Really, don’t look at me like that.”

“You’re young,” she pointed out. “It’s not as though you’re forty, with a house and and two children. When you know it’s time to let someone go, the best thing to do is get it over with quickly and painlessly.”

“Easier said than done!” James lowered his voice with effort. They were in the hall now, and he didn’t particularly want his father or the other Marauders to hear. “It’s not always _simple_ the way it was for you. You fell for Dad in about five seconds and he proposed to you at the end of them.”

Her sternness softened; she sighed. “It’s never as simple as it looks, love.” She squeezed his shoulder. “But you’ll do what’s right.”

Scarfing down their fish curry, the boys explained to Euphemia and Fleamont how the evening had wrapped itself up. Alice had brought Dumbledore and the British ICW delegation — “Don’t tell, though, she’ll get in trouble…” “Who on _earth_ would we tell, James?” — who, as Alistair Longbottom’s colleagues, caused quite a ruckus about his stint in Azkaban. Then Dumbledore had produced some all-important letter to Chief Warlock Agnes Burke, and the Wizengamot had agreed to convene to deliberate.

As the Aurors had mostly finished evacuating the rest of the civilians, they could supervise the proceedings. And the Wizengamot had decided Mr. Longbottom would be exonerated, having been under the influence of the Imperius Curse when he’d acted against the Ministry. A happy Frank Longbottom — newly-promoted to a full-fledged Auror — had given the students the news as he walked them to the Atrium.

“The one bad thing is,” said James around a mouthful of food, “they placed Mr. Longbottom on indefinite leave. Since they can’t be sure the curse has worn off. And guess who’s replaced him.”

“Abraxas Malfoy,” Sirius jumped in, scowling. “Git.”

Euphemia and Fleamont exchanged worried glances. 

“One step forward, two steps back,” Fleamont muttered. 

After dinner, feeling very full indeed, the boys had slumped around the upstairs sitting room. 

“I ought to go home,” said Peter at last. “It’s almost half past nine. Mum’ll kill me.”

“I’m sure my mum wrote yours,” James said. He didn’t want to have to get up and see his mates off through the fireplace.

“Me too.” Remus actually sat up, which was how the others knew the evening had come to an end.

“I’m staying,” said Sirius, not budging in the slightest.

“Prat,” James said fondly.

“Oi!” Sirius jerked upright. “Check your bloody token. Moony changed them this afternoon.”

James searched his pockets. They were rather full, having been fitted with expansion charms so they could accommodate the mirror, the Cloak, and various other necessities. 

“It’s just you now,” said Peter mournfully. “And six other people. Merlin, Prongs, you could actually win!”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” James said. Finally he located the game tile and flipped it right side up. _Lily Evans,_ it read. He blinked. Then he stowed it away. “Great. I can get her when she’s working with you next Friday, Padfoot.”

Sirius shook his head. “Places of work are safe zones. Your rule, remember?”

“Shit. Well, I’ll find a way.” He noticed that none of them had asked who _she_ was; they had all known, then. James remembered the attempted intervention they’d had for him on the first day of school last year. 

But there was no awkward tiptoeing around things now. In fact, not one of his mates felt inclined to make a dig about Lily. It was...odd.

“Let’s head out,” said Remus.

Once Remus and Peter had left, Euphemia informed James that his Hogwarts letter was on his desk, and he was to “actually buy his books tomorrow” instead of “loitering around Diagon Alley.” The spare room was already made up for Sirius, and the boys didn’t particularly want to leave the sitting room. Or, at least, James didn’t. 

“Who d’you reckon is teaching DADA this year?” Sirius said, kicking at James to get his attention.

“Don’t kick me. I dunno.” A thought struck him. “What if we got Alastor Moody?”

“You mean the bloke who’s just been made head of the Auror Office?”

“Oh...yeah…”

Sirius snorted. “Open the letter, maybe the textbook will give us an idea.”

 _“How_ will the textbook give us an idea?”

“I ferried about ten thousand books back and forth from the library for Thorpe. I might recognise it.”

James looked up at him. “Who are you, swot, and what’ve you done with my best mate?”

Sirius kicked him. “Come on, just open it.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Come on.”

“No — stop _kicking_ me.”

Instead of kicking him, Sirius hopped to his feet. “I’ll open it, then.”

“What?” James was aghast. “No, you can’t. My Quidditch badge is in there—”

“—and if it gets dented before the first match then Gryffindor loses the Cup,” Sirius finished. “I know.” And then, an evil grin on his face, he sprinted for James’s bedroom.

“Oi!” 

James leapt after him, but Sirius’s head start made the difference. When he skidded to a stop in his own doorway, Sirius held the letter in his hand like a taunt.

“Give it here, I’ll open it,” James said.

“How should I believe you? You might just take it from me and hide it away.”

“You’ll see your own bloody letter tomorrow!”

Sirius shook the envelope around. “Come on…”

James threw up his hands in surrender and flopped onto the bed, casting his specs to one side. “You open it, then. Wanker.”

“Arse,” Sirius shot back, already working the envelope open. He stuck his fingers inside and withdrew something shiny.

“Be careful with it,” warned James, peeking through his fingers. “Just put it on the desk and read the letter.”

But Sirius did not immediately reply. Instead he began to laugh. “All right,” he said, “I’ll give it to you — this is good.”

“Huh?”

“H.B., like Henry Bartholomew. How long have you been planning this? Wait — we were out all _day,_ how did you sneak this into the envelope?”

James lifted his hand from his face so he could squint at Sirius’s blurry outline. “Padfoot. I have no clue what you’re talking about.” 

He reached for his glasses in time to see Sirius’s expression morph from glee to confusion to awe.

“Merlin’s _balls,”_ he said, and threw the object he was holding at James.

Quidditch reflexes allowed him to snatch it out of the air. James frowned down at it. “This is…”

The same badge he’d seen on Colin Rollins last year, and Frank Longbottom the year before. The Head Boy badge. The badge for _Head fucking Boy._

“You’re yanking my wand, aren’t you?” James said finally.

But his friend, unusually solemn-faced, handed him a piece of parchment. It was from McGonagall, and it was not his list of textbooks. It began, _Dear Mr. Potter, It is my privilege to inform you that you have been selected as this year’s Head Boy…_

“Oh, you got her in on it too,” said James. Even the joke felt limp. 

“Mate, I _wish_ I’d planned this,” said Sirius, sitting down beside him with a thump.

* * *

_vi. The Letter, part two_

The flat was quiet when Lily slipped through the front door. She’d taken the Tube back from Leicester Square, both to calm herself down and because once you were _this_ late to dinner, you might as well be even later. The summer sun still tinged the sky with light, but Petunia had left the sitting room light on. 

No one was inside. All evidence of the evening meal had been cleared away, and Lily wouldn’t have been surprised if Petunia had hoovered too. She was starving. She made a beeline for the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator door, scanning the shelves for leftovers. There were vegetables she could warm up, and a tray of sticky toffee pudding. Her stomach grumbling, Lily pulled out both the dishes.

When she moved to set them down on the counter, she spotted Petunia at the kitchen doorway. Her sister was in a nightdress, her bathrobe loosely knotted over it. Her fine blonde hair was tied back in a plait, and her glare was potent as ever.

“Thank you for showing up,” Petunia said snippily.

Lily suppressed a sigh. “I suppose you didn’t get my owl. Oh, Tuney, I’m so sorry — I went to watch a trial at the Ministry, and I thought I’d be back well in time, but — there was an accident, nearly a stampede if I’m honest, I was concussed and everything — but Dumbledore fixed the concussion so I don’t need the hospital—” She reined herself in. That was the hunger and exhaustion talking.

But it seemed her excuses made no difference to Petunia, whose expression had not even flickered. Lily realised her sister was really, actually furious. 

Rather than the breezy, near-excited rush she’d spoken in before, Lily tried for serious. “I’m honestly sorry. I-I’d love to have dinner with Vernon again before I leave for school.” It was a baldfaced lie, and she was sure Petunia knew that too, but maybe that counted for something. She’d see a man she found downright repulsive if it was to appease her sister.

“Vernon doesn’t want to see you,” said Petunia coldly.

“Oh. All right, then…” 

“Vernon doesn’t want to see you,” her sister went on, “because I told him you don’t go to a normal boarding school.”

Lily stilled. She hadn’t expected this — but it was what she _wanted,_ anyway, for her future brother-in-law to know the truth. 

“How did he take it?” she said cautiously.

Petunia’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t tell him you to _Hogwarts._ I told him you...you go to a school for troubled girls!”

The kitchen fell deathly silent in the wake of her words. Lily wondered if she was dreaming — if this whole day had, in fact, been a bad dream. She would wake up again and it would be Friday morning, the morning of Alistair Longbottom’s trial, only to find that it was not open to the public. She would spend the day fixing the Bonneville instead. And she would return to Burnley Street to have dinner with Vernon and Petunia.

She swallowed hard and found her voice. “Why would you say that?” If this were not a dream, then it would have an explanation. Yes, that was right: there was a reasonable answer to all of this, and Petunia would tell it to her.

“Because!” Petunia’s voice rose to a shriek. “In the middle of my dinner — my _important_ dinner — that I had to cook all by myself, an _owl_ came through the bloody window and pecked at Vernon and me until I read a _letter!_ And after the owl made a mess of the sitting room, well, I had to tell him something!” 

Lily shook her head, incredulous. “Why wouldn’t you just tell him the truth?”

Her sister scoffed. “What, so he’d think _I_ was mental too?” Tears welled up in her eyes. “All I wanted was for tonight to go according to plan!”

“I’m _sorry,”_ said Lily, for what felt like the hundredth time. She fought to keep her voice even. “But it’s not my fault I was held up. Did you miss the part where I was _concussed?_ And was stuck in a holding area at the Ministry for _hours?”_

Petunia appeared not to have heard her at all. “You just couldn’t stand not being the centre of attention for five minutes. Now that Mum and Dad are...gone, you couldn’t bear to play second fiddle to me with anyone!”

Lily ignored the way her heart squeezed, and snorted in disbelief. “You’re mad. _Why_ would I want Vernon’s attention?”

Clearly her sister could not be reasoned with tonight. _Whatever,_ Lily thought. She would take a nice long soak in the bath and come back for supper. Maybe Petunia would be asleep by then. 

She pushed away from the kitchen counter and strode right past her sister, towards her bedroom. To her supreme annoyance, Petunia followed.

“Don’t walk away from me,” Petunia hissed.

“I’m not having this argument now,” said Lily without looking back. 

She dropped her purse onto the bed. Peppermint hooted at her from her desk. Lily murmured a hello to her owl and shut the open window, lest any summer pests creep into her room. She was about to root through her dresser for nightclothes when she noticed the envelope beside Peppermint’s cage.

It was early August. She knew what that letter meant; she picked it up slowly, reverently, noticing that it was heavy but hardly daring to hope.

Lily hadn’t noticed her sister creeping up behind her. Petunia grabbed at the envelope. Only instinct told Lily to yank it back.

“What are you _doing?_ Let — go!”

“You — _listen_ — to me—”

The envelope tore down the middle. Lily gasped; something thudded to the floor. At once she was on her hands and knees scrabbling for it. It had rolled a short distance away under the desk; Lily crawled underneath it and grimaced as she groped through what felt like a forest of dust. At last she sat up with the badge in hand, feeling as though she’d pulled Excalibur from the stone. 

She wiped the badge clean on her skirt. “Oh my God. I’m Head Girl.” Bringing the badge closer to her face for a better examination, Lily noticed a tiny scratch across the letter _G._ She wanted, very suddenly, to cry.

“Congratulations,” said Petunia nastily. “You get everything you want.”

Lily blinked away the moisture in her eyes and stood, setting the badge down carefully on her desk. When she spoke, she was calm. “You seriously overestimate how easy my life is. Magic doesn’t fix everything.” She thought of the badge, already marred; her mother’s watch; the Bonneville she and Sirius had been toiling over. 

“Well, _clearly,”_ Petunia spat, “because we’ve got two dead parents!”

There it was. The unspeakable thing, the _one_ thing she had always feared Petunia thought to be true — and now she, Lily, knew that her fears had been real. She braced a hand against the desk’s edge, feeling as dizzy as when she’d been knocked to the ground hours ago. The lamplight flickered unnaturally.

“All this time I thought we were getting along, that things would go back to normal,” said Petunia, the whip-crack of her fury giving way to a wail. “But you’ve been going off doing — magical things on Fridays, haven’t you? You can’t just _be ordinary,_ because God forbid you operate on the same plane as anyone else — you have to take, and take, and—”

“I have never wanted what you have,” Lily said, quiet but firm. “No — I’ve never wanted what you have badly enough to want to _take_ it from you.”

In the dim light Petunia’s face — normally so even-toned — was blotchy with tears and pink with frustration. Lily could feel tears rolling down her own cheeks. Would things ever be the same, after this? Would she need to relive this moment, or versions of it, again and again? Her mother had told her to treasure her time with her sister, that they were all the other had left now… 

But all along, all through this summer that Lily had thought was going quite well, these thoughts had festered somewhere in the back of Petunia’s mind. You couldn’t _say_ something like that in the heat of the moment if you didn’t think it at other times. Just like...just like _that word…_

She and Petunia had never been rebuilding their relationship. All along whatever had festered between them had been steadily eating away at them, only neither of them had noticed. And Lily was reluctantly well acquainted with the tight, painful knowledge of when to walk away.

“This — magic — is my life,” she said. “If you can’t live with that, then...we shouldn’t be living together. I’m going.”

Petunia swayed a little, as if physically blown back by Lily’s words. But Lily did not wait for her to respond. She had to leave while she could — before this hurt could be superficially soothed, and she could tell herself Petunia hadn’t meant any of it, only to be wounded again by the same arrows. 

Ugly sobs were fighting their way up her throat. Still Lily swallowed them down, grabbing everything useful in sight and flinging it into her trunk. She emptied her dresser drawers, picked up the stationery scattered across her desk, and then levitated the mess away. Sara would know a packing charm, but Lily couldn’t remember the incantation at all…

“Where do you plan on going?” said Petunia shrilly. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

It was a good thing Lily was so awful at unpacking, that she’d resisted putting away the contents of her boxes from Cokeworth. Now that she knew where everything was, it was a simple thing to find her hot chocolate supplies, her copies of _Persuasion_ and _Pride and Prejudice,_ her toothbrush and makeup in the restroom. All of them joined the heap of things accumulating in her trunk.

“I’m not coming home for Christmas,” said Lily. “I’ll see you at Easter, and we can talk about this then.”

Petunia hadn’t moved from her spot by the desk, not even when Lily’d walked around her to the loo. “It’s just like you to run away. It’s just like you to be so childish—”

Lily, halfway through bagging Peppermint’s treats, stopped to laugh sharply. _“I’m_ being childish? It’s always me, isn’t it?” She whirled around to face her sister. “I’m selfish. I’m attention-seeking. I’m _too much_ — I go to a school for troubled girls — because you _have_ to believe I’m the villain. If you don’t, you’ll realise that—” her voice got louder as she went “—you are so deeply bitter because — _YOU DON’T HAVE MAGIC AND I DO!”_

They stared at one another for a long moment. Lily was breathing heavily with the release of long pent-up frustration. Now they had both said what they’d never meant to say aloud.

Magic couldn’t fix everything.

Stony-faced, Petunia gave a loud sniff. “You’re right. You should go.”

She’d expected no different. With a wave of her wand Lily’s trunk slammed shut. She balanced Peppermint’s cage atop it and dragged it out of the bedroom. The light blinked out as she left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :~)
> 
> drop a comment if you spotted a prophecy ([here's](https://thequibblah.tumblr.com/ctprophecies) a handy guide i made on my tumblr page). anddd tell me all your favourite bits, the bits that made you angry (at me), the bits that made you angry at fictional characters, all of em. chapter playlist is on my tumblr 
> 
> next week's chapter is titled "truth is stranger than magic," and i can't wait for you to read it. it probably won't be this long, but literally every single time i make any kind of comment about chapter lengths i end up proving myself wrong, so...anyway
> 
> wow, it feels good to have a chapter done in advance! that's all i have to say for now, take care everyone. leave me a comment! love me!
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	33. Truth is Stranger Than Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Mary meets former hookup Chris Townes on holiday and bonds with his younger brother David, only to rope herself into David's gambling empire at Hogwarts. Doe, Lily, and the Marauders attend Alistair Longbottom's trial, only to get stuck in the Ministry when a freak accident (or WAS it) puts half the Auror Office in St. Mungo's. Through the power of persuasion and string-pulling, they orchestrate a deus ex Dumbledore so that the civilians kept in holding can finally leave. In the middle of it all, Doe manages to sneak a radio broadcast out of the building — the only communication to the outside world during those hours — with the help of a cool protester, managing to trick the DMLE crisis negotiator into helping. Alistair Longbottom is exonerated, but loses his ICW seat to Abraxas Malfoy. Upon returning home, James and Lily discover they are next year's head students; Lily has a blow-up with Petunia, who's upset at her for ditching a very special dinner with Vernon, and abruptly packs her things to leave, one whole month before school actually begins.
> 
> Whew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The document this chapter was written in is 50 pages long. Haven't proofread yet, will do in the morning. Playlist on my tumblr. And holy moly, thank you for 15000+ hits! 
> 
> Thank you so very much to everyone who voted for Come Together in the Jily Awards! It really means a lot that you guys would support this fic all the way to the final round. Sadly we did not pull thru but considering the mad talent all around I am just so pleased and flattered that CT went as far as it did. <3

_Postlude: Mea Culpa_

“That wasn’t at all how I thought it would go,” said Lily as they strode down the sixth floor corridor, footsteps echoing through the quiet. “The last first day, I mean.”

James, hands in his pocket and head ducked slightly, gave a sharp laugh. “I can’t say any of this has gone as planned for me.”

She glanced at him sideways, the gleaming badge on his chest catching her eye. “No, I suppose not.”

They arrived at the staircase. Lily had to take the steps two at a time to keep up with James’s long stride. About halfway up, she couldn’t help but sigh. Returning to Hogwarts was supposed to put her life back in order, not upend it again. And yet she’d had such a horrid start to her tenure as Head Girl… 

“Out with it,” said James. 

“What?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You _sighed,_ Evans. Something’s wrong.” He came to an abrupt stop at the top of the stairs, an expectant eyebrow arched at her. His meaning was clear: they would not go any further until she explained. 

Lily shook her head, staring at the floor. “That shouldn’t have happened at all. And it’s—”

James groaned. “Don’t say it.”

“What?”

“Don’t say it’s your fault, for Merlin’s sake.”

“It is,” she insisted. “I was talking to the Hit Witch at King’s Cross when— I ought to have taken it more seriously!”

“If anything it’s my fault,” he said, and he began to walk again, as if agitation drove him to motion. “I should’ve just hexed them then and there.”

_“James!”_

_“What?”_ He matched her tone. 

“You made the right decision! Imagine how furious McGonagall would’ve been if you’d started the year off by getting into a fight. It would’ve made for an awful beginning—”

“Instead _everyone_ had an awful beginning,” James said. “So a fat lot of good I did, in the end.”

She snagged his elbow, forcing him to stop. “I don’t want to argue.” 

So much more rode on their friendship now. For a moment Lily looked beneath her sheer relief that her partner hadn’t been Severus, and allowed herself to feel trepidation. What if they couldn’t work together at all? _The last straw,_ he’d said… 

He deflated with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Fine. Look, we’re going to be late.”

She didn’t have to check her watch to know he was right. They set off again in silence. But he broke it in short order. 

“You don’t have to...manage me either,” said James.

“Manage you?” Lily repeated, baffled. “What does that mean?”

“What it says on the tin. I’m not your responsibility.” He was avoiding meeting her gaze. 

She stared at him, trying to dissect his closed-off expression. “I know you’re not.”

“Good.”

“Yeah...good.”

The gargoyle that marked the entrance to Dumbledore’s office was in sight. 

“What’s the password again?” James said. 

“Sugar Quills,” said Lily at once. 

He pulled a face. “If I never hear about sweets again, it’ll be too soon.”

She laughed, rather halfheartedly. She wanted to form some kind of apology — still thinking about _managing him_ — but before it could take shape the gargoyle jumped aside, revealing a stern-faced McGonagall. Immediately James and Lily fell silent. 

“Come in,” she said, and they followed without another word. 

* * *

_i. So It Goes with Lily_

Lily Evans was a girl who reached for nostalgia before it was time to feel it. So she had long imagined how her last first day at Hogwarts would go. She would be five-foot-seven, beautiful and self-possessed, striding in with the Head Girl badge pinned to her blouse and waving to countless friends on the platform. 

Perhaps she would sit down and soak in the moment. Some poignant reflections on her Hogwarts career would occur to her. Her mother would kiss her goodbye and shed a few tears. And then one of her mates would take her in hand and lead her to their usual compartment…

But dreams do so often exceed reality, especially when one is as optimistic as Lily Evans. The reality, that September first, was quite different. 

“Do you need a minute, dear?” Mrs. Macdonald was looking at her with no small amount of concern. 

They were punctual, thanks to Mary’s mother’s ruthless timekeeping, even though they had taken the Tube from the Leaky Cauldron. (Lily gathered that transport-related conflict was commonplace among the Macdonalds.) It was twenty past ten, which gave them a luxurious forty minutes to prepare for the Hogwarts Express’s departure. 

Andrew, who had both Mary’s owl and Lily’s in hand, gave her a hopeful, small smile. (He had warmed up to her — that was one good thing to come out of this mess.) “Dad and I can put your things away,” he said. 

“It’s really no trouble,” said Lily quickly. In the past three weeks that had become her mantra of sorts. Showing up in Mary’s garden without any advance notice was bad enough — imposing upon her family for all of August was worse. 

Of course, the Macdonalds had been gracious about it all. They’d refused Lily’s attempts to pay for the shopping or volunteer for too many chores. She reckoned Mary had told them all her interpretation of Lily’s condensed story, because even Mrs. Macdonald hadn’t asked probing questions. 

Meanwhile Mary had taken it upon herself to act as a buffer between Lily and the outside world. Rather than the brisk social calendar she kept most summers, she only occasionally wrote letters (several to the other girls, of course, to explain what had happened) and was almost never on the telephone. 

Lily wouldn’t so much as catch a glimpse of the postman without a warning from her friend first. And so she’d spent her days rereading _Pride and Prejudice_ in the Macdonalds’ garden, stopping from time to time to go into Glasgow on sightseeing expeditions. 

All in all the tender wound in her heart left by her sister had been untouched. Lily wasn’t sure if that counted as healing just yet, but...it felt like progress.

“We need to save our compartment anyway,” Mary said, “so I might as well take the luggage and shoo off any lingering children.” 

Mary had dressed down for the occasion — at least, those who knew her well could see that. She was in jeans and a worn Electric Light Orchestra T-shirt, with minimal makeup and no product in her hair. The overall effect, in Lily’s mind, was that of an actress in a film playing an undercover spy, such that the audience watching her wondered how she passed for an ordinary person. 

In any case, it seemed that Lily would get her introspective moment. “You don’t have to—” she began.

Mary gave her a look of gentle reproach. She stuck a hand in Lily’s skirt pocket — Lily made a startled noise — and pulled out the Head Girl badge, pinning it to her chest. Then she waved her brother on. “Andrew, come along. Da, d’you want to say hi to the others?”

Lily was left with Mary’s mum, who was clearly lingering for her sake. She smiled at the older woman, supposing there was no better time than the present to say her thanks and goodbyes so that Mrs. Macdonald could go and meet whomever she wanted to.

“I know these were strange circumstances, but I’m glad I could spend time with you,” Lily said. “And I can’t thank you enough f-for—” her voice trembled “—having me.”

Mrs. Macdonald squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to thank me at all. Why, Doris would’ve done the same for my Mary.”

Lily swallowed against the lump in her throat. “I’ll just— I’ll be over here.”

“You’ve got plenty of time, dear.” With one final pat on the shoulder, Mrs. Macdonald bustled off, waving hello to another parent. 

She sat down on a nearby bench. _Time._ Yes, in the moment she had enough of it, but in the grand scheme of things six years had flown by. Lily was aware how ridiculous it was, to be all of seventeen years old and dizzy with the realisation of her own mortality, but there she sat anyway, alone.

Though, not for long. Someone flopped down on the bench next to her.

Lily sighed. “I should’ve known you’d come looking for me.”

Sirius leaned back against the wall with a contented sigh. He had a cage balanced on his lap, in which was curled a small dark kitten with enormous blue eyes. It watched Lily with great curiosity. 

He noticed her looking. “Evans, meet Éponine. Éponine, meet Evans.” The kitten mewed as if in response.

Lily smiled. “What a fantastically depressing name. What’s next, Othello the owl? Anna Karenina the toad?”

“I was going to call her Aslan at first,” said Sirius, “but Moony told me the whole thing’s a Christian allegory. Wasn’t chuffed about that.”

“God forbid,” she said solemnly. Then, after a beat of hesitation, she added, “I’m sorry...for standing you up, with the motorcycle. I really…” Her voice dried up. No explanation but the real one would be satisfying.

“Doesn’t seem like you to disappear off the face of the earth. I thought you’d died.” He sounded quite cheerful.

She rolled her eyes. “Still here.”

“Yeah, Mac wrote me. Not dead, just in Scotland. Shame about the game, though.” He squinted at her through one eye. “Who’d you have?”

“What? Oh…” Lily watched her swinging feet instead of him. “I, er, I left my token at...home.”

Sirius grew incredulous. “You didn’t even _see_ who you had?”

“No.” 

“You’ll have to tell Moony you won’t be returning the token, then. I can’t say how he’ll take it.”

She hadn’t given the game much thought, truthfully. Mary had dropped out when she’d decided to go on holiday, after all, so it wasn’t as though Lily had had someone to remind her. 

But now she felt guilty for the three weeks of radio silence, especially given what he’d said to her at the Ministry. _You’re one of us…_

“Doe won in the end, didn’t she?” she said.

“Yeah. She and Ian Waspwing had a shootout in Diagon Alley, it was brilliant.” Sirius squinted at her. “Aren’t you going to ask about the motorcycle?”

“Oh — yes, what happened with that?” She knew already, of course, but if _he_ didn’t know _she_ knew, then she would play along.

“Fixed up. Prongs took over, and since he’s a toff who could work loads of hours for free we got it done. It ran and everything.” Sirius grinned. “We may have made some magical modifications.”

“I thought the point was that Benjy wanted it untouched by magic.”

“Ah, that was Prongs’s idea. You remember what you said, about the museum exhibits needing to be in action and not still? He told Benjy it ought to be a step further, with some exhibits displaying Muggle-and-magical harmony.” Sirius shrugged. “Really, he just wanted a flying motorcycle.”

She smiled. “I suppose I did miss a lot.”

“S’what happens when you fucking _vanish,_ Evans.”

“You knew where I was,” she pointed out. 

“Not because you wanted me to.”

She couldn’t argue with that. 

Sirius motioned to the badge pinned onto her top. “So, Head Girl. I’m shocked.”

“Oh, stop it. It could very easily have been Amelia Bones or Emmeline Vance…”

“It wasn’t, though.” 

The kitten mewed plaintively. Sirius stuck a finger through the bars of her cage and stroked her head idly; Lily followed the gesture with her gaze, surprised to see this more gentle side of him.

“Do you know who Head Boy is?” Sirius said suddenly. 

From anyone else she might have assumed the question came from a place of concern. As it was, Lily felt that he was _really_ asking something quite different. But she couldn’t say what, exactly, that might be. 

“Yes,” Lily said, for there was no reason to lie now. After all, Sirius certainly knew who he was too. 

He took a moment to digest her answer, then nodded and stood. “See you on the train, Evans. Don’t disappear again.”

Before she could call goodbye, he had already vanished into the steam. Lily stayed seated on the bench, the mist swirling around her. The platform was not crowded yet...but soon it would be. And as a train bound for its inevitable destination, the year’s wheels would start to turn.

From James Potter to Lily Evans:

> _August 6th, 1977_
> 
> _Evans,_
> 
> _This sounds grim, but there’s no other way to put it: we need to talk. Owl if you’re free today._
> 
> _James_

> _August 8th, 1977_
> 
> _Evans,_
> 
> _To reiterate: we really, really need to talk. Can’t do this via owl. Where the hell are you? Respond._
> 
> _James_

From Mary Macdonald to James Potter:

> _August 8th, 1977_
> 
> _Hi James,_
> 
> _Lily’s not in the best state of mind at present, so I’m in charge of her correspondence. How urgent is this topic? Will it distress her?_
> 
> _If it will distress her, I have to ask that you hold off on mentioning it. Lily will be Head Girl this year and we’re all very proud of her. She wouldn’t like to begin it with a breakdown._
> 
> _Anyway, let me know! Hope you’re all right after all that protest madness._
> 
> _Mary x_

From James Potter to Mary Macdonald, discarded drafts:

> _Mary,_
> 
> _I don’t know, I can’t say if it’ll distress her. But it’s bloody important. It’s important that she know I’m_

> _Mary,_
> 
> _I hope it’s not distressing enough to cause a breakdown. She’ll only have to contend with it all sodding year. So...too bad, grow up, Evans._

> _Mary,_
> 
> _It’s not like I asked for this. Who the hell knows what Dumbledore was thinking?_

From James Potter to Mary Macdonald:

> _August 9th, 1977_
> 
> _Mary,_
> 
> _Wow, you sound like a mum. But noted. I’m backing off. I’ll just talk to her on the train._
> 
> _James_
> 
> _P.S. tell Evans congrats._

Feeling restless — and noting that it was now fifteen minutes until the train departed — Lily dug through her book bag for McGonagall’s letter. It promised a tête-à-tête with Dumbledore on their first day back and a very early meeting with the deputy head on the first day of classes, but McGonagall had still made mention of what Lily’s duties ought to be. She pulled out a notebook and a pen, already considering the to-do list. 

Lily hesitated for a moment. The notebook had been on their list of books for the year — a slim leather-bound booklet of parchment — though she couldn’t guess why. Had the practicality of bound notes finally occurred to one of their teachers? The new Defence one, even? She didn’t want to have written in a fresh notebook already if it was for class. But she had nothing else to write in. 

She flipped to the back of the book and settled on the last page. There, easy to tear out should she so choose. Lily considered the blank paper, pen in hand. Then she wrote: _first prefects’ meeting, prefects’ schedule, draft of rounds?, office password—_

A trio of robed witches and wizards emerged from the train and strode past Lily, making her start. She consulted McGonagall’s letter: _new security measures…_ Then these were the Hit Wizards that the DMLE had sent in lieu of Aurors, since that office was now understaffed. She wrote down _meet with Hit Wizards?_ Her pen stabbed into the parchment on the dot beneath the question mark.

Lily stood, sticking her pen in the notebook, and walked to the nearest robed figure. The witch must have been some ten years her senior; her neutral, businesslike expression softened slightly when she noticed Lily hovering by her.

“Can I help you?”

She offered a hand. “Lily Evans. I’m Head Girl, I wanted to introduce myself.” Just speaking the words sent a little thrill of delight down her spine.

The witch took it. “Chatfield. Hit Witch.” Once she’d shaken Lily’s hand, Chatfield went back to watching the open compartment door she was stationed in front of.

“You’ll be on the train with us, then?”

Chatfield gave a curt nod.

“Er, are the students — are we allowed to walk around the train? While it’s moving, I mean.” It sounded like an idiotic question, she realised, but given the conflict she’d had with Patrick Podmore it seemed like a good idea to ask beforehand. 

Chatfield made eye contact with her at last, frowning a little. “Of course.”

Encouraged, she said, “And— And how many of you are there?”

The frown deepened. “That’s our business, Miss Evams.”

“Right. Right, sorry. I’m just asking because last year there was a lot of…” Lily trailed off. “Never mind.”

The conductor’s whistle sounded the imminent departure of the train. Just then, a muffled bang came from the compartment before them.

“What was—”

“We’re handling it,” said Chatfield crisply. 

Lily glanced back at the train. The windows before them had the curtains drawn. Another muffled bang rattled the glass. 

“We’re _handling_ it,” Chatfield repeated. “Please board the train.” Lily still lingered. “I’m sure you have duties to attend to.”

Lily was pleased to see that her friends were occupying their usual compartment — no surprises on that front, then. Germaine sat cross-legged by the window. Mary was beside her, drumming her fingers on her lap. And Doe was—

“Braids!” Lily said aloud. “You’ve got braids now!”

Doe, who had been staring at her own lap, looked up and grinned. “D’you like them? Mum was getting hers done and I thought I was due for a change.”

Her dark hair spilled over one shoulder, ending midway down her back. Lily had never realised before how long her curls really were. 

“You’re always gorgeous,” she said as she sat down, “so of course I’m a fan.”

“Oh, stop it, you.”

“Just being honest.” Addressing all of her friends, Lily said, “There’s Hit Wizards on the train, but we’re allowed to walk about. I thought you all might like to know.”

“Oh, thank _God,”_ said Germaine. “If I’m cooped up in here while Mary’s forbidden from socialising for _one_ more train journey—”

“Fuck off, Germaine,” said Mary. “Anyway, we’ll have to see if everyone at school still believes I’m a terrifyingly efficient homewrecker.”

Germaine wormed around so that her back was to the window, nudging Mary with one socked toe. “It’s been all summer. Who the hell has time for last year’s gossip?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.”

Lily checked her watch. “I should be off. The meeting is in ten minutes, but there’s setting up to do—” She stood and shouldered her book bag once more. “Meet back here for lunch, then? Unless you find somewhere better to be, that is.” This she aimed at Mary, with a smile.

Mary rolled her eyes. “I’m a changed person.”

“Sure, Mare.” Doe gave Lily a nod. “Meet back here.”

She was out of the compartment with a wave, too quickly to hear what her friends called after her. 

They were near the front of the train already, so it was not a long walk to the prefects’ compartment. Still, she made it count, letting the excited chatter wash over her and push back her melancholy. If beginnings were sad purely because they signalled inevitable endings — well, dwelling on the latter could not help, could it? 

Lily took a brief detour to the lavatory to change into her robes. The Head Girl badge seemed much less out of place against the uniform. She considered her reflection in the mirror: her Gryffindor tie perfectly straight, the badge’s small imperfection unnoticeable from far away, her hair miraculously behaving. She looked like she belonged.

And she did. No matter what Petunia said — or Voldemort, and people of his ilk — she _did_ belong right there, in the lav in Car A on her way to Hogwarts, dabbing balm onto her lips with her pinkie. Lily smiled at herself. Even if her mother could not have witnessed her on the train platform, she was certain that Doris was watching, from somewhere else. So Lily would do what she’d always tried to do: make her proud.

From there it was a short few paces to the prefects’ compartment. Lily could see a shadow behind the frosted glass. She calmed the sudden flutter in her stomach and stepped inside.

“You’re early,” she said as she shut the sliding door behind herself. “I wasn’t expecting _that—”_ But when she turned around, her smile fell away at once.

The compartment was empty save for one robed figure. Severus Snape stood abruptly at her entrance, his stance defensive.

“Lily,” he said stiffly.

 _Oh, no,_ Lily thought.

* * *

_ii. So It Goes with Dorcas_

The Walkers had put away Doe’s trunk and owl in the girls’ preferred compartment, said hello to an already settled Mary, and at last congregated on the platform. The moment to say goodbye had arrived — the last one of its kind, Doe thought, overwhelmed by both joy and sadness.

“If anyone gives you hassle, about…” Ruth Walker trailed off, but her meaning was clear. 

Doe squeezed her mother’s hand. “What the hell would they be giving me hassle about?” she said roughly. “The fact that my parents are _brilliant?”_

Joe chortled. “Aren’t teenagers supposed to be embarrassed by their parents?”

“Who could be embarrassed of you?” Doe hugged them in turn and pressed kisses to their cheeks. “Take care of yourselves. And...keep me updated, would you?”

They exchanged a glance. Doe could imagine what they were thinking: that owls weren’t safe, that the recent, high-profile demonstration must have opened them up to scrutiny, that even though the Wizengamot was reconsidering the ADA bill they might not look favourably upon the Walkers.

But Joe nodded. “We will, love. Go on, now.”

Doe smiled so widely that it hurt. One last hug, and she was headed off down the platform, a spring in her step. There were the fifth year— no, _sixth year_ Gryffindors now, the two Lisas with their heads bent together. Peter Pettigrew flitted between the other seventh years, apparently asking for something. He was not the first Marauder Doe had seen that morning, but he did seem the most likely to stop and speak with her.

“Peter!” Doe called, waving him over. “Hi— Oh, I’ve got mine right here—” She dug out her tag token and held it out to him.

His answering smile was relieved. “Thanks, Dorcas. You won’t believe how many people are pitching a fuss about giving them back — after Prongs and Moony put so much effort into enchanting them.”

“If anyone can shake it out of them, it’s James and Sirius,” said Doe.

“You’re probably right.”

She had seen Peter not so long ago; at once they both realised they had very little to discuss. There wasn’t much in the way of new news to exchange. So Doe jerked a thumb in the vague direction of the front of the train, and said, “I should be off. Younger students always try to take our compartment, even when we’ve put our trunks away.” Mary had been inside it earlier, but no doubt she had gone off to socialise.

Peter nodded fervently. “Same here. I’ve been saving ours since ten o’clock.”

Doe laughed. “Well, see you in the Great Hall, then.”

“See you.”

She paused for a moment, watching him go. “Oi, Peter!”

He turned around. “Yeah?”

“You’re not...planning something for the feast, are you?” At his confused expression, Doe added, “You know, like last year, with the food fight.”

“Ahhh…” Peter suddenly looked embarrassed, though she couldn’t guess why. “You’ll, er, you’ll have to wait and see.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Doe said, mostly to herself. Peter had hurried away already, in the opposite direction. Shrugging to herself, Doe continued on her way. 

It wasn’t long before she spotted Germaine, engrossed in conversation with Quentin Kravitz and Percy Egwu — the only remaining members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, Doe realised. _That_ meant another year of James breaking his head over the sport, no doubt, and the rest of the house falling over themselves worrying about who would take the departed students’ spots… She smiled at the thought. It would be eventful, no matter what.

“To the compartment?” Germaine said when she’d noticed Doe.

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt,” said Doe.

“You’re not interrupting,” Quentin assured her. “King doesn’t want to hear how the Magpies are going to thrash the Harpies this weekend.”

Germaine scoffed. “The _Magpies!_ I’d like to see them try.”

“Considering the Harpies’ Chaser trio,” Percy cut in, “I don’t think you’re on the winning side here, Quent.”

 _“You_ don’t start—”

“I’m only saying what everyone’s thinking—”

“All right, I _was_ interrupting,” Doe said, rolling her eyes fondly. “See you on the train, Germaine.”

Germaine, mid-sentence, just gave her a thumbs up. Doe was waylaid soon after by a posse of Ravenclaws — “Find us on the train later!” Bridget Summeridge said — and her heart grew lighter as she went. 

Of course, not everything she saw was sunshine and daisies. Cecily Sprucklin stood with a group of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw boys; Doe supposed that the combined fallout of her arguments with Florence and Amelia had effectively distanced her from the girls in her house. She felt a twinge of sympathy for the other witch, despite everything. 

The train corridor was crowded with students exchanging summer stories. But as the conductor’s whistle sounded from outside, they slowly began to find their seats. Sara Shafiq stood in front of the door to the girls’ usual compartment, holding court with an assortment of people Doe vaguely recognised.

“—can’t imagine what his role will be at Hogwarts, but I suppose we’ll— oh, Dorcas!” Sara swept her into a hug. “Mary told me you lot were at the Ministry _protest.”_ She said that last word in an awed whisper.

“Hi, Sara. We were, yeah.” Doe searched for the right words to describe it. At that moment, with expectant gazes upon her, she wasn’t sure how to convey the feeling she’d had in the Ministry — that the goings-on were both scarier and more mundane than she’d expected. 

“Do you know who it is, then?” piped up one girl. 

“Who...Who’s what?”

“The _voice,”_ said a boy, as if it were obvious.

“The…”

“Where are my manners,” said Sara with an elegant hand-wave. “This is Gillian Burke, Doe, and that’s Eddie McKinnon. Oh, and over here we have...Elena Kaczperski, Devon Macmillan, and of course you know Owen Redding—”

Doe, blinking at this deluge of names, said hello to Owen, a fellow seventh year. One detail from the list Sara was rattling off floated up to the surface. “Burke?” she repeated, turning back to the first girl who’d spoken. “Are you related to—”

Gillian Burke screwed up her face regretfully. “The Chief Warlock’s my nan. But we’re not invited to family Christmas, if you know what I mean.”

Doe wasn’t sure she did, but if Gillian didn’t want to elaborate she wouldn’t ask. 

“Bother Agnes Burke,” said Eddie McKinnon, waving his dismissal. “Do you know about the voice, Dorcas? My sister told me a Hogwarts student managed a broadcast out of the Ministry and alerted a load of activists.”

Her spine snapped straight. Of course Doe had seen herself referenced in newspaper articles and on the radio, but only throwaway mentions each time. Never by name, either, because she hadn’t said introduced herself on the broadcast. Her parents assured her they had not identified her to the others at U&E. 

The other students Doe had seen after the protest had seemed interested in the voice’s identity, but she’d assumed that was only because they’d been at the Ministry themselves. Only the Marauders and Lily knew the truth. It hadn’t occurred to her that anyone else would care at all.

“Your sister Marlene?” Doe said, to buy herself enough time to think up a proper answer.

Eddie shook his head. “Olive, she’s older than Marly. She’s in U&E, you know.” A murmur rippled through the assembled group.

“Aren’t your parents, too?” asked the girl named Elena Kaczperski curiously.

“Yes, they are,” Doe said. “And, um, I haven’t the faintest who the voice might be. Sorry.” 

She wasn’t sure why she’d lied, but she had given the same excuse to the Ravenclaws in their Tinworth outing. It felt wrong, somehow, to lie to them and take the mask off in front of Sara’s mates.

Sara gave a delicate sigh. “Ah, well. Gaurav and the rest of them were there too, weren’t they? I’m sure someone will let it slip eventually…”

They moved en masse out of the way, leaving Doe to slide open the compartment door and drop onto the seat opposite Mary. So her socialising had been quicker than expected.

“You look like you’re about to get maudlin,” Mary observed. “What’s your reason, then?”

“Nothing. I mean, no, I’m not—”

Germaine arrived with her trunk in tow, breathless from the exertion. “Budge over,” she told Mary, who made a noise of protest but moved so that she could have the window. Germaine heaved her trunk onto the luggage rack and sat down hard.

“It’s nice seeing everyone again,” Doe mused, putting _the voice_ out of her head for the time being. “We saw a lot of them over summer, of course, but it’s not the same as school. You know, when I was dropping off my trunk Sirius nearly ran me and my parents over. Shouting something or the other.”

“The Marauders will be like that when they’re thirty-five,” said Germaine. “School’s got nothing to do with it.”

Mary had leaned forward with interest. “Did you see what he was carrying?” 

Doe frowned. “Carrying? No, I wasn’t really looking.”

“I thought it was a bag of gold…”

“You don’t think they’re up to something?” said Germaine. “I would expect them to have a grand plan, seeing as it’s our last year.”

“Well, Peter seemed a little cagey when I saw him,” Doe said doubtfully. “Do you know anything, Mare?”

Mary shrugged. “I’ve been sitting here since half past ten. The only person I’ve spoken to is Sara, and only because _she_ came to _me.”_

That surprised Doe; she knew that her friend had had a quiet summer, but keeping to herself was not in Mary’s repertoire at all.

“Are you all right?” she said softly. 

Mary shook her head. “Fine, fine. It’s — odd, being the oldest now. Don’t you feel like you’re being watched, and that everyone knows you?”

Germaine snorted. “Hardly. Hate to break it to you, Mare, but that’s you-specific.”

“You haven’t run into Cecily, have you?” Doe prodded.

That elicited a reaction from Mary: she made a loud _humph_ and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not wasting any more time arguing with her.”

“Okay, then, I’ll change the subject. How’s Lily been?”

“She’s been _better,”_ said Mary slowly, “but she’s also been worse. She’s upset about Doris not being here, obviously…”

“And Petunia,” Germaine said.

“Fucking Petunia,” Mary muttered.

Doe caught a glimpse of red hair through the window. “Shh, I don’t want her to think we were talking about her.”

“We _are,”_ said Germaine. Doe rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I hope you’re right and the Marauders aren’t thinking of trying something. Lily deserves a decent start to the year.”

“She won’t get one if Snape’s Head Boy,” murmured Doe.

“No one in their right mind would make that creep head of anything,” said Mary, shuddering. “He’s hardly a _leader.”_

“Well… Colin Rollins…”

“It’s not the same!”

The compartment door slid open. “Braids!” was the first thing out of Lily’s mouth. 

As far as Doe could tell, their friend _looked_ all right. The anxious pallor she’d had around her mother’s death was entirely absent. But then again Petunia hadn’t _died,_ just fought with her… 

Doe smiled her greeting, fiddling with the ends of her hair. “D’you like them? Mum was getting hers done and I thought I was due for a change.”

Lily sat down just as the conductor’s whistle sounded again; the train lurched into motion. “You’re always gorgeous, so of course I’m a fan.”

Her smile widened. “Oh, stop it, you.”

“Just being honest.” Turning towards the others, Lily said, “There’s Hit Wizards on the train, but we’re allowed to walk about. I thought you all might like to know.”

“Oh, thank _God,”_ said Germaine, with a pointed look at Mary. “If I’m cooped up in here while Mary’s forbidden from socialising for _one_ more train journey—”

“Fuck off, Germaine,” came the response. “Anyway, we’ll have to see if everyone at school still believes I’m a terrifyingly efficient homewrecker.”

“It’s been all summer. Who the hell has time for last year’s gossip?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.”

Doe thought of Amelia Bones, who had not made up with Emmeline, and Cecily, who had not made up with Florence. Mary knew the cycles of gossip better than any of them, and perhaps there was validity to her worry. Not everything could be swept away by the steady current of Hogwarts news, after all.

“I should be off,” said Lily. “The meeting is in ten minutes, but there’s setting up to do— Meet back here for lunch, then? Unless you find somewhere better to be, that is.” 

Mary, noticing that this was directed at her, rolled her eyes. “I’m a changed person.”

Where Mary’s usual protestations were often just for dramatics, Doe did not dismiss this one out of hand. Something about her friends — both of them — was different. 

“Sure, Mare.” Doe smiled back at Lily. “Meet back here.”

“Wait, before you go—” Germaine’s voice rose to a shout as Lily slipped out of the compartment “—do you know who Head Boy is?!”

But Lily was already gone.

“Shit,” Germaine said.

“Wouldn’t we know by now if it was Snape?” said Doe uncertainly. “Wouldn’t— I don’t know, did Sara say anything?”

Once again Mary shrugged, this time more insistently. “Not to me. I reckon we can rule out Bertram Aubrey, though. He’d be crowing up and down the train if it were him.”

“Or Remus,” Doe said. “One of the Marauders would’ve said.”

“Gaurav Singh,” began Germaine, but Doe was already shaking her head.

“I saw Gaurav in Tinworth, and that was after Lily got her letter, remember? I’m sure it would have come up.”

“I’m stumped, then.”

Mary stood. “Well, I’ve got to meet someone, so I’ll ask around on my way.”

Doe and Germaine exchanged a glance. 

“I thought you were a changed person,” said Doe.

“Is it a _boy?”_ Germaine said at the same time.

“Yes to the first and no to the second,” Mary said, too quickly. Was she actually _blushing?_ “Oh, it’s not like that. Christ.”

“Right,” said Germaine, drawing the word out. “Well, I wanted to go find Potter, ask him what he’s thinking about tryouts—”

“Already?” Doe laughed. “Germaine, we’re not even _at_ school yet.”

“Well, I want to know who the new captains are! It’s important to keep up to date on these things.” With a sniff, Germaine rose to her feet too. “And I’ll get the bloody egg and cress sandwiches, Mare.”

Mary brightened. “Would you? They run out so quickly—”

“Will you be all right, Doe?” Germaine asked as she slid the compartment door open.

“I’m sure I will be. Bridget told me to say hello, so I might as well do that now, while you’re all gone.”

“Look at us,” Mary said, wiping at a pretend tear. “Seventh years with abundant social lives. It’s all I could have asked for in fourth year.”

“You already had an abundant social life in fourth year,” said Germaine.

“I meant for _you.”_

The girls were clearly not the only students taking advantage of being allowed to freely roam the train. Doe was sure that some people were only walking around because they hadn’t been able to last January. She saw still more familiar faces on her way.

Lisa Kelly, who had only said about five words to Doe in all their years of school together, said a warm hello to her and asked how her summer had been. Nonplussed, Doe made polite conversation. Florence Quaille — in a much more cheerful mood than her former best friend — waved at her too, as did just about every Gryffindor she saw. 

Maybe Mary was right, and being a seventh year _did_ mean everyone was watching you and knew who you were. There was no one older than them to gossip about, anyway, so maybe that was the bottom line. If even she was being treated like a celebrity, Doe thought, amused, then her mates — the Head Girl, the house Seeker, and Mary bloody Macdonald — would have it far worse. 

At length she found the compartment that housed Bridget and the other students she’d run into earlier, an assortment of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Michael and Lottie Fenwick were there, though Gaurav Singh was absent — headed for the prefects’ meeting, Doe guessed. There was Terrence Mulvey, who’d been at the protest, and Kemi Kikelomo, and Gordon Zhou… 

This was the N.E.W.T.-level Ancient Runes class, Doe realised. She hadn’t noticed outside of the context of school, particularly because the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs did not mix so much in other social settings, but now it was stupidly clear. Only in May she had enviously watched Michael with them. Now she was sitting with them on the Hogwarts Express, having been to the seaside with several of them weeks ago. 

And wasn’t that funny? That they’d gone to a protest and come out of it friends?

“Are you going to sit, or just stand there?” said Michael, grinning. He was seated closest to the door, with a sliver of space next to him.

Doe didn’t need further invitation. “Move over, then.”

It was decidedly cramped, but no one seemed to notice. Indeed, the group only grew bigger the longer they sat there, with several sixth years joining too. Doe supposed plenty of people had mates who were off at the prefects’ meeting, and had, like her, chosen this time to socialise outside their usual groups.

“Well, I don’t know much about the films,” Lottie was saying, “but ‘Nobody Does It Better’ has got to be the best Bond song so far.”

“Three words for you,” Terrence shot back, “‘Diamonds Are Forever.’”

“Pass me a sweet, would you?” Doe said. 

Bridget reached over to the pile of treats that was occupying prime placement on the seat, and handed her a wrapper. 

“Is this a Curly Wurly?” She blinked, astonished, at the very Muggle chocolate.

“Oh, yes— Someone brought them, I can’t even remember who—”

“Someone was selling them,” said a sixth year boy. “Smart business decision, I reckon.”

She shrugged, tore open the Curly Wurly, and took a bite, drawn into the parallel conversation nearer to her. “No, no, no,” Doe said, waving a hand at this group. “Even _I_ know enough about the Chudley Cannons to know you don’t bet on _that_ losing horse.”

“That’s cold, Walker,” said Gordon. “Haven’t you ever rooted for the underdog before?”

“There’s _underdogs,_ and then there’s the Cannons.”

Michael raised a finger. “I like the Cannons.”

“But you’re not a Cannons _fan,”_ Doe protested. “You’re from Cornwall — you ought to be a Puddlemere fan!”

He made a face. “Puddlemere’s too easy.”

She was laughing at him now. “Too easy, because they’re actually good?”

“Don’t listen to him,” Kemi said, “for all his talk he’s still a Wasps supporter.”

A chorus of boos echoed round the compartment, and Michael put his hands up in surrender. “Spoiled, I know. Best Beater in the league, _I know—”_

“Come off it, Daryl Haines could take Bagman anyday—”

“Haines? No chance, Kemi—”

Something had just occurred to Doe. “Sorry to cut in again, but you lot would know — who’re the Quidditch captains this year?” If, by chance, Germaine didn’t find out, she could pass on the information.

“Emmeline’s ours,” said Bridget. Some unspoken message passed between her and Lottie, who stopped talking about Carly Simon for long enough to raise her brows at her housemate.

“Is Chris the Hufflepuff captain?” 

Gordon snorted. “Townes? Not a chance. Don’t get me wrong, we’re mates! But the bloke couldn’t lead a practice of sheep. Nah, it’s Ricky Johnston.”

Doe nodded as though this name meant anything to her. “Sixth year?”

“Yep.”

“Should’ve been Kemi,” sang a Hufflepuff sixth year, nudging the girl in question.

Kemi smiled, demurring. “That’s nice of you to say, Mia, but all that matters to me is winning the Cup.”

“Fair and square,” Gordon added pointedly. “No handouts.”

Doe thought she might be the only Gryffindor in the compartment, and at once felt compelled to defend James and Germaine. “Well, that’s not fair. It’s not as though we asked to win and just got it. Besides, Gryffindor _were_ the only undefeated team.”

“And James says it doesn’t count,” said a voice by the window.

Doe turned, startled but pleased to have found another supporter. “That does sound like something he’d say.”

The girl who’d spoken was a Gryffindor, but Doe could not for the life of her recall the witch’s name. She was a sixth year, with artfully styled blonde hair and a curvy figure, and… _Mary would know who she is,_ Doe thought. As it was there was no casual way of asking the girl’s name.

“Well, he’s got proper competition this year,” said Terrence. “Emmeline might be a tougher captain than he is.”

Considering the two years’ worth of complaints Doe had heard about James, she wasn’t so sure. But as the conversation turned to things she knew even less about than the Gryffindor Quidditch team, she decided it was time to move closer to Lottie and Bridget. She stood — Michael, seeming to sense her intentions, scooted further down — and at last, by complicated rearrangement, she found herself by the Ravenclaw girls, Terrence, and a gaggle of younger students.

“Everyone breaks up when they finish school,” the blonde Gryffindor witch was saying. “Especially when you’re different years. That’s just common sense.”

Lottie frowned. “Gerry and I aren’t going to break up next year.”

The blonde girl opened her mouth; Doe beat her to it. “I’m sure you won’t, Lottie. You’re so sweet together.” _Crisis averted,_ she thought. Lottie brightened at once. 

The blonde just gave a little shrug. “Maybe you’ll beat the odds, Lottie. But just look at last year. Amelia and Steve Fawcett, Dex Fortescue and Lily Evans—”

“Neither of them broke up because the year ended,” said Terrence.

Doe wondered how it seemed that everyone knew everything about everyone else. Was this what Germaine felt like all the time?

“What about James and Marissa Beasley?”

“James and Marissa broke up?” Doe said, frowning.

“He told me this morning,” the blonde girl said with a sympathetic wince. “Didn’t you know? I thought your year got along so well…”

Rarely did Doe have an obviously uncharitable thought without an ounce of regret. But the first thing that jumped to mind just then was _fuck you._

“Oh, Niamh, I’m sure they’ve got better things to do than update each other on their relationships. Right, Dorcas?” This came from Gillian Burke, one of the few Slytherins in the compartment; she gave Doe a wide smile.

Doe smiled in return, relieved on two counts. Now she she did not have to tiptoe around addressed Niamh Campbell — for that was what she was called — by name. 

“They all had the right idea, if you ask me,” Terrence said. “It’s dating within your year that’s a problem.” He shuddered.

“Don’t you believe in love, Terrence?” teased Bridget.

“Not if it ends like Cecily and Chris.”

In unison the entire circle cringed, Doe included. 

“The simple solution there is to _not_ be like Cecily or Chris,” Bridget said. “And not to, well—” She threw a glance at Doe.

“Not to snog someone else,” said Doe firmly, before anyone could jump in and take a dig at Mary.

Terrence shrugged. “It gets messy, is all I’m saying. Even fancying them — look at Florence and Chris, or, hey, Potter and Evans—”

“At least the two of _them_ get along decently,” said Niamh. Doe felt bad for disliking her. “But sacred Circe, Terrence, you could stand to be more sensitive. What with Dorcas and Remus Lupin…” She arched an eyebrow. 

Doe at once went back to disliking her.

“Me and Remus what?” she said, incredulous. 

Niamh laughed uncomfortably. “We were all there, weren’t we? At the Marauders’ party last year.”

Doe noticed, out of the corner of her eye, that the other half of the compartment had started to pay attention to their conversation. _Great,_ she thought, _perfect timing._ Now all she had to do was walk the line between dismissing Niamh’s claim — in order to tell the truth — and making certain that her new friends did not tell the entire school some rubbish about what a slag she was.

“It wasn’t like that,” said Doe, hoping that no one else heard the strain in her voice. 

“Ah,” Niamh said. “Cool. Free love.”

Doe could almost have appreciated her efficiency, if she weren’t so annoyed. 

“Moving on,” said Terrence slowly, “and by that I mean moving onto something less radioactive…”

Michael gave her a sympathetic smile. It was reassuring, but it did not take away from the fact that she wanted to tell off Niamh Campbell until her voice gave out, and possibly to jinx her mouth shut as well. Shortly afterwards, still stewing, Doe decided it was time to make her exit. She would find Mary and learn some mean, disparaging fact about Niamh in order to feel better. 

“Oh, before I go—” Doe glanced over her shoulder, one hand on the door handle “—does anyone know who Head Boy is?”

All fifteen occupants of the compartment exchanged glances. No one had to say anything; the answer was plain. They didn’t.

“We’ll walk you out.” 

Bridget jumped up, as did Lottie; the three of them squeezed out of the compartment and paused in the corridor.

“Don’t let Niamh bother you,” said Bridget in an undertone, casting aside any illusion that this was not an intervention. “No one cares who you’re seeing. It’s not our business.”

Lottie nodded insistently. “And I think Remus is sweet!”

This was not the time or place to try and explain that she’d fancied Michael for a good part of the previous year, and so it was still uncomfortable for her to talk about her romantic past — or lack thereof — in front of him. Besides, Lottie and Bridget were his housemates, and his friends first. Doe didn’t want to test any of these new bonds.

“Thanks,” Doe said, “but I’m really not seeing him. I told you, I’m very much unattached.”

“You did say so,” Lottie said.

“What a shame,” said Bridget, grinning. “You can’t put in a good word for me with Black.”

Doe laughed. “I still can.”

“We’ll see you in the Great Hall, yeah?”

She said her goodbyes and started up the train, her smile fading as she went. _Typical, just typical,_ she thought, that a hundred other girls could do whatever they wanted, and the one time she did anything impulsive she would not be able to live it down. 

But she had only gone two doors down when footsteps rang out behind her. “Hold on,” called Michael, “I’m the trolley mule today.”

“You’ve got enough Muggle chocolate in there to feed thirty,” Doe said. 

Some part of her was already bracing to see if Michael would treat her differently, having heard what he’d heard… Then again, he was mates with Chris Townes. Anyone who was mates with Chris Townes couldn’t possibly be judgmental. 

Michael shrugged. “Sweets aren’t lunch.” 

They continued down the corridor. Doe occasionally glanced over at him, but he seemed quite happy to walk in silence...and to keep his own gaze fixed on the path ahead.

“I’m glad we could go to Tinworth,” said Doe at last, unable to stay quiet any longer.

He smiled. “Me too. Who’d have thought a magical seaside town would be within driving distance of me?”

“You were right, though. You couldn’t have known.”

“Now I do.”

She relaxed and returned his smile. “And you have somewhere to go that isn’t spoiled by Katie.”

Michael laughed. “What, just pop over to a diner in Tinworth because I want to avoid my ex?”

“Sure, why not? You can Apparate and everything.”

“I just could go to London, then.”

“Boring,” said Doe. “You could go somewhere you don’t have to see every year to buy your schoolbooks. Like Holyhead.”

“Or Banchory.”

“Or Caerphilly.”

“Or Portree.”

“Yes, exactly.” 

The door to the next carriage slid open some feet ahead of Doe and Michael. A stout, short Hit Wizard entered, followed by a slight one. In fact, the second wizard looked rather familiar.

“Was that—”

But before Doe could frame the sentence in her mind, let alone aloud, the two had disappeared into a compartment.

Michael was frowning. “Was that what?”

“Never mind. I thought I recognised the Hit Wizard.”

“Maybe you did, from the Ministry.”

“Maybe… But we dealt with Aurors, mostly.” Doe remained still for a long moment, frowning at the closed compartment door. Had the man she’d recognised been a Hit Wizard in the first place?

“We can knock, invent an excuse, and see who they are,” Michael suggested.

Her brows rose. “Michael Meadowes, that’s conniving of you.”

He grinned. “Just trying to flout the rule-abiding Ravenclaw stereotype.”

“Admirable. Then I’ll follow your lead and flout the rule-breaking Gryffindor one.” She made for the door to the next carriage. After all, they would be formally introduced to the Hit Wizards soon enough. “We have the trolley witch to look for.”

* * *

_iii. So It Goes with Mary_

She was ten minutes early. By her mother’s strict rulebook for punctuality, that was on time. But was that on time by his definition? Mary couldn’t have guessed. 

She hovered outside the compartment; the glass in the door revealed the outlines of multiple shadows. So he wasn’t alone. So...she should wait. 

But how could she simply _linger_ in the corridor? That was ridiculous. The Hit Witch stationed at the end of the carriage was giving her funny looks. Not to mention all the students who passed by and did a double take at the sight of her.

No, she was drawing more attention here than she would inside. Mary sucked in a breath and knocked on the door. It slid open.

A boy she had never seen in her life opened it. He was exactly her height, so she had the perfect view of him blinking rapidly at the sight of her. She wanted to ask if there was something in his eye.

“Yes?” the boy said.

“I’m not a travelling salesgirl,” Mary snapped, “let me in, would you?”

This was enough to stun him into action. He backed away at once and she strode through the door; it slid shut behind her with a bang.

“Oh, Mary.” To his credit, David didn’t panic at the sight of her. Yes, _very_ much to his credit, she thought, given how he appeared perpetually worried otherwise. “Have a seat.”

She glanced at the two other occupants of the room: a small brown-skinned girl with her hair in a bob, and the lanky fair-skinned boy who’d opened the door for her. The former was reading, and hadn’t looked up at her entrance. The latter continued to watch her with reservation. 

“Are you going to introduce me?” Mary said as she sat down beside David.

He had a notebook open in his lap, a quill in his hand. She supposed this was the all-important bet book that Mundungus had referred to, but if he had it out in front of his mates secrecy wasn’t high on his agenda. 

David nodded at her. “Sure. This is Priya and Hugh. Priya and Hugh, this is Mary.”

“Uh,” said Hugh.

“We know,” said Priya, who still hadn’t glanced up from her book. 

“Hufflepuffs?” Mary asked.

“Yep. So you’re Mary Macdonald,” Priya hummed. “Say, you didn’t sleep with Doc Dearborn, did you?”

 _“Priya,”_ Hugh and David chorused.

Mary, eyes wide, saw no harm in answering. “No.”

“Cool. David, count me and Hugh as independent confirmation and collect on that one.”

A bet, she realised. A bet about what she did in bed. The same old nervousness rose up in her again. David was watching her with concern; she carefully rearranged her expression into cool nonchalance once more.

“So, they’re in on it too?” She gestured to Priya and Hugh. “Dung made it seem such a big secret.”

“I do the maths for anything David’s involved in or has a conflict of interest with,” Hugh chimed in. 

_So, the Chris bets,_ Mary thought and had the good sense not to say aloud. David was bent over the notebook again, rifling through its pages.

Mary shifted so she was facing him properly. “Great. Well, you wanted to see me, and now I’m here. I don’t suppose I need to pretend what it’s about.”

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Priya and Hugh exchange a look. David turned to look at her, blinking owlishly.

“What—What _is_ it about?” said Hugh with trepidation.

“I’m about to seduce David and then poison him,” Mary said crossly. Hugh gaped at her. “Stop looking at me like I will, then! Jesus Christ, I’m a _person,_ not a walking rumour.”

Priya made a noncommittal sound. 

Sighing, David closed the notebook. “Please relax. All of you.” At his mates’ sceptical expressions, he added, “Mary’s got more bark than bite.”

“Right, don’t undersell it…” 

He gave her an exasperated look, but she was certain she saw his lips twitch ever so slightly. “Right, our schedule. You and I collect monthly. I pass Dung’s cut to him every Hogsmeade weekend, so we tend to be short around then — if you could avoid demanding upfront gold when he’s due, that would be helpful.”

“The end of every month, that is, not the beginning?” Mary said. 

He nodded. “The last weekend is when I count and pay out winnings, unless something urgent happens in the middle of the month.”

She snorted. “What’s urgent?”

“Quidditch match,” Priya supplied, “big Marauder prank, that sort of thing.”

If talking about this in a pub with Mundungus Fletcher had felt bizarre, the feeling only heightened now that they were on their way back to school. This was...real, and these three sixth-year Hufflepuffs were treating it like a business.

“Right. Silly me,” Mary said drily.

“Like I told you in Portree,” said David, “you can’t see the bets made about you. At all. That’s the most important rule.”

She frowned. “Does Hugh have his own little notebook, or are the bets about you still written down in there?”

“That’s different. I’m not going to screw up my primary source of income.” He raised his brows meaningfully.

“But I would? _Thanks.”_

David shrugged. “It’s nothing personal. You’re just a lot more...proactive than me.”

Mary was fairly sure _proactive_ was a substitute for another descriptor, but she couldn’t put her finger on what.

“It really is the most important rule. Ask Priya,” said Hugh.

Priya set aside her book, which piqued Mary’s interest more than anything else. 

“Early last year, Devon Macmillan thought he deserved Herbology Club president. He obviously did not.” She rolled her eyes. “So I made a bet with David about it, and got some of the other Hufflepuff girls to do it too. We skewed the odds to make it seem like Devon was a shoo-in. Then I stole a look at the numbers and had someone conveniently let slip the odds to him. He started to slack off in class. So when I began sabotaging him, it seemed more like he was the one fucking up.”

Absolute silence fell. Mary waited for someone to start laughing and tell her it was all a joke. But all three sixth years seemed dead serious.

Priya tucked a stray piece of hair behind one ear. “Anyway, I’m Herbology Club president now. Ever heard of Tentacula Nair?”

Mary considered the question seriously. “You know, now that I think about it, the name _does_ ring a bell.”

“That’s me.”

Mary glanced at David. “Jesus, I thought Hufflepuffs were supposed to be loyal.” Priya shrugged. “That was supposed to turn me off looking at the book? It sounds like everything worked out for her.”

David frowned. “Devon Macmillan was in the Hospital Wing for a week.”

“First of all, you never mentioned that. Second of all, she still got everything she wanted. Third of all, hello, your friend put someone in _hospital_ for a _week_ and that’s _normal?”_

“She’s security,” Hugh said. “No one tries to squeeze money out of David when he’s got Tentacula Nair on his side.”

Mary’s mouth fell open. “She’s about five feet tall!”

“She’s right here,” said Priya, picking up her book once more.

“The point is, Mary, looking at the odds makes you tempted to fix them. And once you start playing God, it’s difficult to stop. And...the book’s fallen into the wrong hands before.”

She sighed, defeated. “Okay, you can stop warning me about the dangers of hubris or whatever. I’ve seen _The Godfather.”_

Hugh frowned. “Have you?”

“Fine, I slept through _The Godfather._ Let a girl live, Hugh.”

“Do you have any questions?” said David.

She thought she did — she was _certain_ she did, but none came to mind. More than anything Mary realised she was thrown by how brisk the proceedings were. She had come in expecting David alone, so she might make small talk and ask how the rest of his summer had been. 

But once again she came up against the fact that David wasn’t who she thought he was. He was certainly not a loner begging for her friendship. In fact, his little ecosystem was quite stable without her. That was the strange thing about holiday friends.

“Yes,” Mary said, finding her voice at last. “Yes, um, two questions. Is Sirius Black on the take?”

At once a very _David_ look appeared on David’s face. It was part consternation and part indignation, a mixture of _well, of course not_ and _shit, why do you think that?_

“No, of course not,” he said, “why would you think that?”

Mary couldn’t hold back a smile. The other three looked at her like she was demented. She smoothed it away quickly. 

“Just wondering. I thought he might be.”

“There’s so many bets about him and his mates,” said Hugh, looking queasy. “It’d be a mess to untangle.”

“Do they place any?”

“Never. I hope they do before they’re finished with school.” A dreamy expression came over Hugh. “I wonder what it would be.”

“Something daft, if I know them,” Mary said. “And where are we supposed to meet?”

“Meet?” David repeated.

“Yeah. Y’know, for you to give me my cut.”

“Oh.” It was obvious he hadn’t considered this at all.

“I could come to the Hufflepuff common room?”

“How d’you know how to get in?” said Hugh.

“Take a guess,” deadpanned Priya.

“Rude,” Mary muttered.

“No, that wouldn’t work at all,” said David thoughtfully. “Library? We could study together.”

“David could tutor you,” Hugh suggested. 

Mary gave him a look of deepest affront. “I don’t need to be tutored,” she said through gritted teeth. She scowled at David. _“I_ could tutor _you._ I’ve already taken the classes you’re taking.”

“No one has to actually tutor anyone,” David said patiently. “That’s just the cover. How about Arithmancy? No one will look twice if I have the notebook out.”

“I’ve already got a study partner for Arithmancy. My best bloody mate!”

“History of Magic?”

Mary forced herself to calm down. “Fine.” At least her friends had each other in that class, and might not notice if she studied without them. 

“Nice meeting you all,” she said stiffly, and stood. Her gaze lingered on David, who smiled his goodbye. That was the strange thing about holiday friends. 

“Wait, how about a bet before you go?” Hugh called.

She scoffed. “I’m here to _make_ money, not lose it.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” David said, rolling his eyes. “Ignore him.”

“I want to see what you’d pick,” said Priya.

“Really, Mary—”

“Merlin. _Fine,_ tell me what’s interesting.”

David had a reproachful sort of expression on. “Hugh, seriously—”

“Don’t be a wet blanket, David,” said Priya. “Let’s see, if I remember right there’s still Head Boy… And we’ve got fun odds on there being a disturbance at the feast today.”

“Fun odds?” Mary repeated, wrinkling her nose.

“Surprisingly low,” Hugh explained. “Someone knows something we don’t.”

She gave David an incredulous look. “Isn’t it your _job_ to know things?”

“We’ve got someone in the prefects’ meeting now,” he said, flushing faintly. 

“I meant the odds of there being a disturbance, not Head Boy.” Mary remembered Sirius and the suspicious bag he’d been carrying… “I’ll take that bet. Something will happen at — the feast.”

“Before, during, or after?” said Priya.

“God, I don’t _know—_ Before!”

“Even worse odds,” Hugh muttered.

She’d show them. Mary rooted through her pockets, producing five Galleons, four Knuts, and a Chocolate Frog. “There.”

“I’m not taking this,” David said with a sigh. “You’re just doing it to prove a point, and not even a very good one.”

“I’ll make whatever point I want to,” said Mary haughtily. “Write it down.”

He sighed again, but bent his head over the notebook. When he’d finished writing, he gave her a _happy now?_ look. 

“Well. Bye.” Mary wrenched the compartment door open and stormed out, knowing her anger was too childish by half. 

David followed, and grabbed her hand — Mary made a vague noise of protest, some cross between _tch!_ and an outraged gasp, and he dropped it at once. 

“Er. Sorry. Are you cross with me?” 

He was so horribly earnest. There was a funny tickle in the back of Mary’s throat. She wished she hadn’t flounced in like a diva, caused a commotion, and swanned right out. 

“No, it’s — fine,” she mumbled, smoothing down her hair just to have something to do with her hands. “I’m nervous.” The admission felt too big for the narrow corridor. The train hit a small bump, rippling through them. Both David and Mary said a quiet “ouch.”

“You’re nervous,” David said, wonderingly. _“You’re_ nervous. You’ve got nothing to worry about, Mary. It’s school.” _And you’re you,_ was the unsaid addendum.

“Do I?” Her voice was embarrassingly small.

He nodded, seemed to consider carefully what to say next. Then he smiled. “I’ve seen the odds,” he joked.

It did not put her at ease, not exactly; but some load upon her shoulders lessened. “I’ll see you at the end of the month, then,” Mary said.

“Yeah. See you.”

Mary had not been lying, earlier, to her mates. There was no one else she wanted to see on the train. Oh, acquaintances and gossip partners of the past would find their way back to her, no doubt. But she had no desire to seek them out. This year _would_ be different. 

She found the trolley witch and exchanged a few coins for sandwiches and sweets. Poor Germaine, having to always be the trolley mule. Mary would repay her in Pumpkin Pasties. She turned away from Brenda Gamp, intending to return to the girls’ compartment, but she walked straight into none other than Chris Townes.

“Hey, Mac, d’you have a minute?” he said, falling into step beside her before she could answer.

“Not really. I’m going to meet my friends.”

“It’ll only take a second. Seriously.”

“Hmmm… no.”

 _“Mary._ I only want to know how Shannon’s doing.”

She slanted him a suspicious look. Chris _appeared_ earnest — his puppy-dog eyes were a familiar sight. But their effect was quite dulled now. Mary hoped that was a sign of growth.

“She’s perfectly fine, Chris. Not pining over you or anything, if that’s what you were hoping.”

Indeed, Shannon had lived up to her word, and had treated Chris as purely a holiday fling. Once she and Mary had left Skye, there was hardly any talk of him but as a casual acquaintance. Maybe it was Macdonald genetics.

Chris was frowning. “Why would I want that?”

Mary shrugged. “I don’t know how you think. But there, I’ve answered your question. Can you leave me be now?”

“Why are you being like this?”

He sounded so honestly confused. They both stopped walking at the same time; Mary let out a sigh.

“Look,” Chris said, “I’m sorry I spoiled your holiday, all right? I just wanted you to pass this on to her.” He withdrew an envelope from his pocket. “I don’t know how the Muggle post works, and I thought it would be a bad idea to muck around with it.”

Mary stared at it, uncomprehending. This was the same Chris Townes who, just a few months ago, had told her cheating on Cecily didn’t count because _she’d_ done it first. And now he was writing letters to her cousin?

“Right. Never mind.” Chris began to stow the letter away. “I’ll just...ask someone else.”

“It’s fine. Give it here,” Mary said. She hadn’t a pocket large enough for the envelope, so she simply held it in her hand. “I’ll owl my parents and they’ll send it to her.”

Chris nodded warily. “O-Okay. Thanks.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t want this to be weird—” he began.

Mary held in a groan. She didn’t either. In fact, she wanted the conversation to _end._ Before she could find a way to say as much, a compartment door slid open near them, and a blonde head poked out of it.

“Mary?” said Florence Quaille. “D’you want to come join us?”

Chris froze. Mary glanced between them, taking in how relaxed Florence seemed and how awkward Chris appeared. Perhaps what had changed for Chris, she realised, was losing one of _his_ best mates. 

Florence probably had no cause to be nice to her. But for whatever reason she was offering a helping hand now, and Mary would much rather deal with her than Chris at present. So she nodded at the other girl and followed her, leaving Chris standing still in the corridor.

“I thought you could use an escape,” said Florence. Her smile made her look rather rabbity — though not necessarily in a bad way. The scrunched nose and rounded cheeks only highlighted to Mary how adorable she was. Sweet, yes. A little hopeless, but sweet.

She returned the smile. “I’d have probably made it out alive, but...I appreciate it.”

“Let me introduce you to everyone—” Florence turned to the other occupants of the compartment, whom Mary vaguely recognised. There was Lisa Kelly, the sixth year Gryffindor, and a handful of timid-looking Hufflepuff girls. 

All of them had the same sweet-but-hopeless air as Florence. _Dear God,_ Mary thought, _the mice have unionised._

“Nice to meet you all,” Mary said, taking a seat. Perhaps she had made a mistake here. There was a decent chance that everyone in this compartment had a bone to pick with her.

“Chocolate?” Florence held out a Cadbury bar to her.

Mary took it, growing more perplexed by the moment. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but — you’re being awfully nice to me.”

Florence seemed amused by her wariness. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Chris? Cecily? My involvement in all of that?”

Florence gave an airy sigh. “It was rotten before you snogged Chris, believe me. I’m almost grateful. All that drama with you gave me a reason to stop pretending.”

“Er. Right.” She wasn’t sure if she ought to take that at face value. “Still, it wasn’t my finest moment.”

“Don’t worry, Mary. That’s all in the past. This year,” Florence said grandly, “I’m going to focus on myself.”

“Oh. Cool.” Mary was suddenly certain that this was a fever dream, and it no longer mattered what she said and did. Feeling a little hysterical, she said, “I’d love to hear your strategies.”

The other girls tittered, like she’d made a particularly clever joke.

“So...you wanted to forgive me,” Mary said. “To focus on yourself. That’s what this is?”

Florence nodded. “I’m practising radical compassion.”

This was definitely a fever dream. Maybe there was something in the Cadbury.

“D’you know,” Florence said suddenly, “I always wanted to be like you.”

Mary gave a nervous laugh. All of the girls were looking at her, expectant. “It’s overrated. I’m only just realising that myself.”

“Maybe. Maybe I only wanted a friend like you.” 

Florence looked embarrassed by this admission. Mary wasn’t sure what to make of it. It seemed, then, that the best thing to do was to leave before the whole situation became even more awkward than Chris Townes handing her a letter to her cousin. 

“I really am sorry,” Mary said, and stood up. “Thanks for the sweets. And, er, I’ll see you around, I suppose.”

Relief broke out across Florence’s face, though the smile that followed it up seemed earnest. “Yes, see you around.”

She juggled her bar of chocolate and the envelope, trying to open the compartment door. It took an excruciating eternity before Mary could manage it.

“Oh, and say congratulations to James and Lily, would you?” called Florence. 

Mary paused, frowning. How funny that phrase was, _congratulations to James and Lily,_ like they’d recently got married or something. 

“Congratulations for what?” 

The girls exchanged looks of surprise. 

“Head Boy and Head Girl, of course,” said Lisa Kelly slowly.

Mary gaped at them for a moment, not caring that she probably looked like a recently unhoused fish. When she found her voice again, she said, “I have to go. I really, really have to go.”

Their compartment was empty, though it was now solidly lunchtime. Mary did not sit down. She couldn’t have — she had to tell _some_ one. Surely Lily was having to deal with this dramatic revelation. And, oh, it all made sense — after all, James had written to say he needed to speak with her, and she, Mary, had told him not to…

“Bother,” she muttered. 

The door slid open. Mary jumped, whirling around, and positively shouted, “You’ll never guess who Head Boy is—”

Germaine was not ruffled in the slightest. “James.”

Mary wilted. “Seriously? Who told you? How does _everyone_ know except us?”

Shutting the compartment door behind her, Germaine plopped onto the seat and unloaded her pockets, which were full of goodies from the trolley. “I suppose the Marauders were keeping it quiet. Though, I’ve got no idea why — we’re all going to hear about it at the feast anyway.”

Mary sat as well. “Merlin. Was anyone expecting this?”

Germaine stretched her legs out. “I dunno, Mare. It seems weird at first, but then once you think about it—”

“No, I suppose you’re right. There’s Quidditch, and he’s certainly not _stupid—”_

“—and he _could_ keep people in line, you know he could—”

“—yes, the more I consider it—”

The door jumped open once more. Doe said, “You won’t believe—”

“That James is Head Boy?” Germaine and Mary said in unison.

Doe frowned. “Damn. I was hoping I’d get to tell you both.”

“Yeah, get in line,” said Germaine. “Who told you, then?”

“Bertram Aubrey.” Doe grinned. “I ran into him at the trolley. _God,_ he looked furious. Which reminds me—” She emptied out the contents of her pockets too.

Mary stared at the heap of food they’d now collected, and began to laugh.

“What’s wrong?” said Germaine.

“Nothing’s _wrong._ It’s just — I brought us food too.” She added her own haul to the pile.

All three of them exchanged incredulous glances. And then, one by one, they all spluttered with helpless, giddy laughter. That was how Lily found them when she walked in. 

The four girls devolved into hysterics once more when Lily withdrew four sandwiches, three Chocolate Frogs, and five Cauldron Cakes from the pockets of her robe.

* * *

_iv. So It Goes with Germaine_

“What d’you mean, Potter’s at the prefects’ meeting?” 

Germaine stood in the doorway to the Marauders’ usual compartment, which, at present, contained Sirius and Peter, as well as a random younger boy. The Marauders had had their heads bent over a record player when she’d entered, and rather looked like they wanted to return to whatever they’d been doing.

“If you’re messing with the meeting Lily will be furious,” she added.

Sirius laughed. “Evans doesn’t have to worry on that front. Prefect business is officially off the table when it comes to our plans now.”

Germaine frowned. “Stop speaking in code.”

“James is Head Boy,” said Peter.

She blinked. Sirius looked gleeful. Peter looked quietly proud. 

Germaine burst into laughter. “Right, very funny, you had me fooled. Now, really, what’s he doing at the prefects’ meeting?”

“Being Head Boy,” said Peter.

“You’re serious?” Germaine glanced between them again, trying to glean some evidence of an inside joke. But...no, they both appeared quite sincere. That was a first in and of itself.

“Well, _I’m_ Sirius.” Peter groaned and threw a packet of sweets at him. Sirius caught it. “Maltesers, excellent.”

“Huh,” said Germaine. _“Huh._ I wonder how Lily and him will work together.”

The Marauders exchanged meaningful looks. 

“I wonder,” Sirius said sagely. 

Having returned her tag token and gotten all the Quidditch gossip from players across the houses, Germaine found Brenda Gamp the trolley witch at the far end of the train. She purchased the usual lunches and sweets.

A younger student nearby was eating a strange twisted chocolate while buying Bertie Bott’s. Germaine frowned at the curly thing, distracted out of her conversation with the trolley witch.

“Is that one new?” she asked Brenda.

“Hmm? Oh, no, love, that’s not one of mine.”

“Oi, what’s that?” Germaine waved at the student, who looked terrified at being addressed by a stranger.

“C-Curly Wurly,” the boy said.

“Cool. What _is_ it, though?”

“Ch-Chocolate…”

“Look at me,” Germaine said patiently, “I’m the size of a thirteen-year-old. I’m not going to fight you for a curly-whatsit.”

The boy looked unconvinced. “A-Anthony Avery said—”

“What does Anthony Avery have to do with chocolate?”

“H-He—”

“It’s a Muggle thing.” Someone else had joined the queue behind them, her dark hair pinned back from her angular face. Emmeline looked much the same as she had when Germaine had run into her at the Ministry. “Some fourth year brought a whole heap of Muggle sweets, probably made a killing selling them. At least, before the Slytherins caught on.”

Now the boy’s abject terror made a little more sense.

“Oh,” said Germaine. “Shit.”

“The Marauders handled it,” Emmeline said curtly. “Or so I hear.”

Belatedly she realised that if Emmeline was here, then the prefects’ meeting must have let out. Which meant Lily was probably looking for the rest of them. Germaine wanted nothing more than to leg it back to their compartment and hear all the new information from her friend.

As if sensing her flight instinct, Emmeline said, “Can we talk? My compartment’s just over there.”

What had Isobel Park told her, months ago? That it was better to confront things head-on than to let them simmer, or some such. As much as Germaine had shied away from such advice back then, she could see the merit in it now. The hurt of Emmeline literally fleeing from her had dulled at last. If she wanted to face the Ravenclaw Quidditch team and beat them, she’d have to make her peace with the other witch.

“Sure, all right.” Gathering her things, Germaine followed Emmeline to the compartment in question, with one last apologetic smile at the younger boy with the Curly Wurly.

The compartment was empty; Germaine wondered how Emmeline had staked one out all to herself. Then again, considering the girl’s forbidding personality, it might not have been so hard. 

“The team will be here in five minutes,” Emmeline told her.

Germaine supposed this was reassurance — their interaction, however it went, had a definite end. So they both had an excuse to part if things got especially awkward. Then it was best to get it over with.

“Sorry, about that day at the Ministry,” Germaine said. “I sort of...ran off without saying a word. But you said the thing about the quills, and I thought my sister—”

Emmeline was frowning. “What? Oh, you mean the day of the lockdown. I forgot about that entirely.”

Her shoulders sagged in relief. “Oh, good. What, er, what did you want to talk about, then?”

They were sitting opposite each other, Germaine with her spine taut and arms crossed, Emmeline leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. She stared, for a moment, at the floor of the compartment between her feet.

“You have to understand,” Emmeline said at last, “I didn’t say anything — anything rude about you, to Amelia.”

Ah, so that was what this was about. Germaine sighed. “You don’t need to explain—”

“I do!” Emmeline glanced up, then looked back at her feet. “I do. I feel _awful._ I told her what had happened, and I told her how I felt about it—”

Germaine twitched.

“—and somewhere along the road she’d got it twisted. She was… She can be judgmental, and overprotective.” Something like tenderness flickered in Emmeline’s expression. “But that’s no excuse. I’m sorry you had to be on the receiving end of it.”

How was Emmeline’s apology turning out more eloquent than Amelia’s had been?

“It was Mary, really, not me…” 

“Even so.”

“How you felt about it,” Germaine said, then stopped. “So...you felt...negatively, about it.”

Emmeline’s forehead creased. “It’s not that simple. I didn’t — I don’t — I’m not used to the idea, that I liked it.” (A brief bloom of hope, despite everything.) “I was more confused than anything, and I thought it would be less painful not to get you involved while I thought about it.”

“It’s not as though I’ve kissed a million girls,” said Germaine before she could think twice.

Emmeline laughed a little. “You haven’t?”

It took Germaine a moment to realise that the question was not rhetorical. How strange, that someone else could see her so differently from the way she saw herself — and yet that difference was not necessarily _bad._

Just...different.

“Merlin, no. It’s a short list, actually. A very short list of one.”

Germaine had never seen what a shy smile would look like upon Emmeline before. She saw it now, a pursed little curve as though Emmeline did not want it to be noticed. 

“Right. So...I had that wrong, then.”

“By a long shot,” Germaine agreed. 

So far the conversation had gone nothing like she’d thought it would. Her shoulders felt remarkably light. Not so long ago every talk with Emmeline had left her feeling as though she had to puzzle something out — but now the picture felt settled, clear, if not perfect.

“If it helps, I’m sorry. About all of it.” Emmeline rose from her seat.

Germaine supposed that was dismissal; she stood too. “It’s okay. Water under the troll bridge, as they say.”

And really, it was all more convenient this way. Because now Emmeline was Ravenclaw’s captain, and as it was Germaine had broken out in cold sweats over playing against them. How much worse would it have been if she had become even more attached to the other witch?

So, good terms was the best end result. Water under the troll bridge. 

“Congratulations, by the way,” said Germaine. “You’ll be a great captain.”

Emmeline’s smile broadened. “I know.”

“We’ll still beat you, though.”

“We’ll have to see about that.”

For a moment they were just standing there, a foot or so apart, smiling. Then the compartment door slid open. 

“Hey, cap,” said the boy in the doorway, one of the Ravenclaw Beaters. His curious gaze fell upon Germaine, who hastily stepped away from Emmeline.

“Sit, Goshawk,” Emmeline said, turning businesslike at once.

“Don’t bother planning.” Germaine skirted around the boy and stopped at the door. “You’re gonna lose anyway.”

“We’ll have to see about that,” Emmeline said again, and the smile broke through her stern expression for just one moment.

The girls moved out of the train and into the Scottish twilight, sticking close together in the crush of students. Lily had gone off to shepherd everyone towards the carriages, leaving Doe, Germaine, and Mary to make their own way up to the castle.

“It’ll take me a minute to get used to that,” Doe murmured, nodding at the sight of James in his uniform with the shiny Head Boy badge pinned to it. At present he was only hovering on the platform, exchanging words with some giggling Hufflepuffs. Still, the badge certainly conferred authority.

“Potter’s a better leader than you’d think,” said Germaine. 

“It’s not his leadership that’s in doubt to anyone,” Mary said. “It’s where we’ll be led.”

Germaine laughed. “Be nice,” said Doe. 

Mary rolled her eyes. “Please, _God,_ let’s have a decent carriage.” She grabbed them by the arms and dragged them bodily through the horde of students.

Germaine normally would have protested at this manhandling, but Mary’s most underrated skill was her mobility in a crowd. She stumbled along all the way to one of the first carriages, occupied by Hufflepuffs she did not recognise. 

“Excellent, let’s go—”

Mary hauled her around to the next one. “No, not that one.”

“What? But there were only three of them—”

“Sometimes there are weird complications because of who you meet on holiday,” Mary said.

“Chris Townes?” Doe looked askance at Germaine, who could only shrug in response. “Has he been acting funny with you, Mare?”

“Chris!” Mary shook her head. “Can you believe he gave me a letter to deliver to Shanny? Jesus Christ.”

Germaine guffawed. “Before or after you ran into Florence Quaille?”

“Before. _God_ , that was weird.”

They passed a bunch of sixth-year Gryffindors; Germaine waved at Quentin. A blonde witch beside him called hello to Mary, who only gave a terse smile in response.

“Niamh wants summer gossip from me,” Mary said caustically. “I expect a whole load of them know that I saw Chris—”

“Yeah, but you didn’t _see_ Chris,” said Germaine. “You only saw him.”

“Does it make a difference?”

“She was being _so_ weird when I saw her this morning.” Doe grimaced. “She said something about Remus and I, with _all_ the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs around—”

“Including Michael?” Mary scoffed, outraged. 

“Well, that’s not the important thing—”

“Isn’t it?”

“It isn’t!”

“We’ll see about Niamh Campbell.”

Doe looked worried at once. “Mare, forget I said anything.”

“Don’t worry,” said Mary grimly.

They piled into a carriage that contained two excitable fourth years, who appeared to be trading more Muggle sweets. Whoever had thought to tell them had obviously done a very good job of it, Germaine thought.

“Who do you reckon the new Defence teacher’s going to be?” Germaine said, choosing a subject that she knew would immediately pique Doe and divert attention from this Niamh Campbell business.

It worked; Doe sat up at once as the carriage lurched forward. “I hope they’re half as good as Thorpe.”

“No, you don’t,” said Mary. “You hope they’re as good as Thorpe or better, and you’ll complain until my ears fall off if they aren’t.”

Doe rolled her eyes. “Funny. The textbooks we were assigned seem quite standard — certainly N.E.W.T.-level. Thorpe had an extra one on her syllabus, though.”

“How do you even know that?”

“She’s been spending far too much time with Ravenclaws,” Germaine said. “Seaside day my arse, I bet you were all comparing marks.”

“Shut up,” Doe said affectionately. “What I’m really curious about is the notebook. What d’you reckon that’s for?”

Germaine steepled her fingers. “Well, I’ve been thinking about it _non-stop_ ever since we got our letters, so here’s what I think.”

“Really?”

_“No.”_

“Maybe it’s for Careers Advice,” Mary said. “An extension of what we did in fifth year.”

Doe looked disappointed. “A whole book to write about how I want to be an Auror?”

“A whole book to plan out your networking strategy and application timeline,” Germaine said. 

“That’s brilliant!” Evidently Doe had not heard her sarcasm. “Maybe I ought to write that down…”

“Are you talking about those booklets?” The fourth years had stopped their own conversation to listen in; the girl who’d spoken had long plaits. “I don’t think that’s to do with careers. We had to get them too, and we’re only in fourth year.”

“The whole school, then?” Doe was frowning. “I wonder what… I thought I _did_ see…”

“See who?” Germaine and Mary said. 

“Never mind. I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

The carriage creaked to a stop before the castle’s enormous double doors. The girls clambered out, following the stream of students into the Entrance Hall. At once it was clear that something was amiss: the doors to the Great Hall were firmly closed, with two Hit Witches parked forbiddingly in front of them. The students who’d already made it to the castle were milling about the Entrance Hall, talking amongst themselves.

“What’s going on?” Doe said.

“Very...unclear…” Germaine angled towards McGonagall, who was stationed at the foot of the staircase and arguing with a Hit Wizard. Filch hovered nearby, looking hopeful.

The Transfiguration professor was nothing short of incensed, though the Hit Wizard was so expressionless he might have been made of stone. 

“—perfectly capable of evaluating security risks,” McGonagall was saying, her voice tight with irritation. 

“With all due respect, Miss McGonagall—”

All three girls winced. Their head of house seemed to gain about five extra feet of height, her expression growing ever stormier.

 _“Professor,”_ she growled.

The Hit Wizard skated right on. “—if that were the case there would not have been any mishaps last year.”

McGonagall’s fury went cold. It seemed plain that she could not muster an argument against that point. “The whole school in this chamber — they will be extremely difficult to manage.”

“The teacher’s job is to manage students,” the Hit Wizard said, shrugging elegantly. “Is that not so?”

“Indeed,” said McGonagall icily. “So allow us to manage them.” She stared down her nose at the man. “You may go.”

 _“Ouch,”_ Germaine whispered.

The Hit Wizard departed with a bow. “Who _was_ that guy?” said Mary, sotto voce. “Wasn’t he bloody _taught_ by her?”

Filch, seeing an opening, darted forward to face McGonagall. “We ought to search the students, Professor!”

She all but gazed heavenward. “Mr. Filch, please, there’s enough going on already—”

“Potter and Black, then. If anyone’s up to no good—”

“I have faith in my students,” McGonagall said with dignity. She cocked her head to one side. “Is that Peeves I hear?”

Filch scowled. “I’ll get him, I will—” And he hobbled up the staircase, oblivious to the sigh of relief McGonagall gave.

About half of the Entrance Hall had filled by then, the trickle of students now a rush. The girls did not have to wait long for an explanation, for McGonagall amplified her voice with a muttered spell and called, “Please wait in an orderly fashion, students, the Hit Wizard company is securing the Great Hall. We ought to be allowed in momentarily.”

“Securing?” Germaine muttered. “What, like this is the bloody Goblin Wars?”

McGonagall’s mouth twitched into an almost-smile.

The hall surely and steadily began to fill. The girls kept their spot by the staircase, out of the way of most of the muttering and pushing. It would be a mistake, Germaine judged, to stand right by the doors — why, they’d be bowled over by the stampede whenever the Hit Witches let them in. Their area grew more and more populated with red-tied Gryffindors as time passed. Evidently their housemates had seen the benefit in clustering around McGonagall too. Periodically the deputy headmistress would repeat her message of patience.

“She’s right about one thing,” said Doe darkly. “Having everyone in this space won’t go well.”

Germaine remembered what Emmeline had said to her earlier. “Especially considering there’s already been a spat on the train — something to do with those Muggle sweets and the Slytherins.”

“For God’s sake. Of course Avery and the others will want to throw their weight around, remind everyone that they don’t need Mulciber and Rosier to think for them — never mind that _none_ of that lot has ever had a brain cell—”

“Yes,” Mary murmured, almost to herself. “Nature does abhor a vacuum.”

“What?” said Germaine. 

Doe didn’t seem to hear. “At least the first years won’t be here...hopefully.”

“No, they get in after everyone else, remember? We had to wait in that little room to be Sorted.” Germaine caught sight of James’s untidy hair, and a flash of coppery red beside him. “Oh, there’s James and Lily. That must be the last of the carriages then, yeah?”

“Where?” Doe craned her neck.

“Over there—”

“I’ll be back in a second.” Mary started off towards a clump of sixth years.

Germaine snagged her by the arm. “Hang on, what are you doing?”

“Just having a word with Niamh.” She waved nonchalantly in the sixth years’ direction.

“Have you gone completely mad?” Doe hissed. “Do _not_ start a fight in the Entrance Hall, Mary Macdonald—”

“I’m not starting a fight! I just need to tell her to back the fuck off, because what use is my infamy if I can’t use it to defend my friends?”

“Mare, don’t be ridiculous,” said Germaine, throwing a nervous glance at McGonagall, who still stood not that far from them. 

The conversation in the Great Hall swelled to a nervous crescendo; the castle’s huge doors thudded shut. She had never felt trapped at Hogwarts before, but there was no better word to describe this sensation.

“I’m not being ridiculous.” Mary shook Germaine off. “I’ll be fine.”

“Mary!”

But before Germaine or Doe could reach for her again, she had vanished into the crowd. They tried to push after her, but students simply did not part for them. Germaine caught sight of Mary’s dark hair, Niamh’s blonde curls — _got ‘em,_ she thought.

There was an almighty bang. Then, screams. Germaine whirled around, searching for the source of the noise. Green light, so much green light—

* * *

_Prelude: Last Night_

Lily Apparated right onto the triple crescent Magical Transportation logo, into silent Diagon Alley. A cat in the alley beside her hissed at her sudden appearance — or perhaps the noise that had accompanied her. 

_I’ll just take a walk,_ she told herself. Just a walk, and there would be no one to see her or talk to, and she would be able to calm her mind and go back to Mary’s and fall asleep once more. If she did not get to rest this last night she would be half-asleep at the prefects’ meeting tomorrow. And that would be bad. Very bad.

Half-asleep, and who would she be relying on to keep her awake? Lily wasn’t sure. It was not Remus; Mary had told her that much. Bertram Aubrey, Gaurav Singh, or...well. Severus. She crossed her arms over her chest, strolling down towards Carkitt Market. 

If her professors trusted her to be responsible, then she would have to be. She would work with him, as cordially as she could. She had enough friends that she would not feel quite so alone. She had people she could trust. 

Still, the prospect was so decidedly unappealing. Second chances had not worked with Petunia. Why should they work with Severus Snape? 

A gaggle of laughing wizards stumbled out of a pub, and she swerved to avoid them. Lily tightened her grip on her wand, glancing over her shoulder at them. MLEP officers patrolled around here at night, she knew, and so she didn’t think she would be in any _danger,_ necessarily, but it was better to be safe than—

“Oof!” Lily backed away at once from the person she’d just walked into. “Merlin, I’m so sorry, I should’ve looked where I was—”

“Evans?” James’s hands fell upon her shoulders, steadying her. The last remainder of a wide grin was disappearing from his face, morphing into closed-off, defensive concern. “What are you doing wandering around at night? Have you lost your mind?”

Reeling from both the surprise of running into him and the vehemence of his question, Lily stammered, “I was only taking a—”

“A walk? In the middle of the night? It’s like you _don’t_ remember anything about the _Ministry protest_ we just attended with the _attack_ on half the Auror Office—”

“It’s not like anyone can look at me and figure out that I’m Muggle-born,” she said in an undertone. She appreciated the worry — she did. But this seemed like an overreaction. Or a reaction to something else.

James released her, folding his arms over his chest. There was a golden bird on his T-shirt, she noticed. “Oh, yeah?” he challenged. “What would you say if someone asked for your name?”

She hadn’t considered the possibility, but at once she said, “Germaine King.”

He huffed. “Not pureblood-sounding enough.”

Annoyed, Lily said, “Thalia Greengrass.”

“This isn’t a _joke,_ Evans.”

She backed away from him. The moon was a swollen blob above them, not quite full, angled westward so she could see every detail of his scowl. His hair was sticking up rather more than usual, as if he’d actually just stepped off a broom. 

“I’m not here to argue,” Lily said. “I can’t sleep, and I just want to tire myself out before I have to prepare for whatever horrible surprise awaits me tomorrow, and if you’re angry with me I really — I _can’t_ address it right now—”

 _“If_ I’m angry with you?” James said, incredulous. “You’re joking. You _vanished!_ Sorry for being concerned—”

She sighed, deflating. “Just walk with me, then.”

He subsided into silence. For a moment she thought he would offer up another argument, but at last James nodded, and the two of them started back up Horizont Alley.

“What’re you doing out so late?” Lily said.

He smiled faintly. “Sirius and I were taking the motorcycle out.”

“The motorcycle!” All annoyance forgotten, she turned to him eagerly. “It works, then?”

“Oh, yeah, it works. It flies.” James’s grin turned smug. _“Literally.”_

“You’re kidding!”

“Never.”

There was a story there, and no doubt she would hear it in time. But it became clear to Lily that he would not be telling her any diverting tales just yet. They paused, both of them, and James’s easy manner gave way once more. Lily braced herself for some rebuke.

What he did say was, “Are you all right?”

She frowned, really considering the question. “I suppose I am. Or — I will be. But there’s different degrees of all right. And I’m not sure my sister and I will be...a reasonable level of it, not for a while.”

Perhaps it was easier to tell him because it was dark, and quiet, and she could focus on the rhythm of their footsteps instead of overthinking what she was about to say. In any case James gracefully avoided her gaze as she poured out the whole story: how Petunia had reacted, how they had argued, how they had both said the worst things they could have said to each other.

“—so if you have an easy fix,” Lily said, with a helpless laugh, “I’d love to hear it.”

James was silent for a while. “I don’t, I’m afraid.”

She nodded slowly. “No, I suppose there isn’t one.”

“I went to see her,” James said.

“You — who?”

He coughed. “Well, not _to_ see her. I happened to see her. I mean — the day after the Ministry thing, I went to your house. Her house. Whatever. Because you weren’t answering my owls.”

Lily nodded wary encouragement as he paused for breath. “Did she… What did you say to her?”

James shrugged. “That I was your friend from school and were you in. She said you’d left. I asked where you’d gone, and she said she didn’t know.”

The night was not chilly, but she shivered a little, guilty despite herself. She could not have faced Petunia, she knew. Not just yet. At the same time, to leave her sister without any sort of reassurance — she would’ve been worried sick, if it had been the other way around.

“And then?”

“Then I said if you were avoiding me or something, I had to tell you—”

“Why,” said Lily, “would I have been avoiding you?”

He arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t answer my letters.”

“That wasn’t because it was _you.”_

“Well, I didn’t know _that._ She said she really didn’t know where you were.” The even tone with which he’d been telling her all this turned sheepish. “I might’ve...got a bit impatient.”

“Oh, dear,” she said wryly.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “People are disappearing. What was I supposed to think?”

“That the Death Eaters have more important targets than a Hogwarts student?”

“Don’t act like I’m the one being unreasonable here.”

“But what did you say next?” Lily prompted. It was a little mortifying to think about, her sister face to face with James Potter. 

James sighed. “That she ought to be worried about you, and I may have implied she didn’t care about where you were or what had happened to you.”

Lily snorted a laugh. He threw her a cautious smile. 

“What, you’re not going to tell me off for rowing with her in the road?”

“Considering the fact that I’m on less than ideal terms with her, I don’t really have ground to stand on,” she said. “Hang on, the _road?_ Did she not invite you in?”

“Oh, we were shouting on the doorstep.” He grinned. “Your upstairs neighbour was really concerned. I told her to say hi to her son Nigel.”

She laughed again, and the sound echoed back all around them. “James, her _cat’s_ called Nigel!”

“Yeah, well, I know that _now…”_

“I can’t believe you.” The familiar admonishment was delivered without heat — or, rather, with fond warmth. Lily could _not_ believe it, and yet she could imagine it vividly. It was just like James to go looking for her and scold her sister while he was at it. How oddly endearing the whole picture was. 

“Sorry,” he said, sounding not apologetic in the slightest.

“What was it, anyway?”

“What?”

“What were you going to tell me?” At his sudden silence, Lily looked up, brows furrowed. “That’s why you went looking for me, wasn’t it?” 

“Yeah. Right. You can, er, sleep a little easier. Snape isn’t Head Boy.”

She let out a small, relieved breath. “How do you know? But — Remus—”

“Not Remus either.” James was watching her out of the corner of his gaze, like he did not want to look at her head-on.

“Then who?”

“Well...me.”

They were nearly all the way down Diagon Alley at this point, past the _Prophet_ offices — from which late-shift writers were still stumbling — and nearing the turn to Horizont Alley. James stepped around the reporters; Lily watched him in mute shock.

She might have thought he was joking. Had this been broad daylight, she might have laughed. As it was, she did not think he was being facetious.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh — my _goodness,_ congratulations!”

James had just been halfway to a sardonic smile, no doubt some witty remark on the tip of his tongue. Lily forestalled him by throwing her arms around him.

“Christ, Evans, you’re cutting off my circulation,” he said, and he did sound a bit strangled.

Lily laughed into the bird on his T-shirt. “Shut up and hug me back, Potter.”

He exhaled a laugh too — concession — and did as she said. Perhaps she held him tighter than she should have, but she was so — _stupidly_ relieved, and glad, and grateful to have a friend. No, not just any friend. This one. 

They stood there for a few moments, his chin a comfortable weight on top of her head. There was something so _nice_ about being held, she thought, and initial complaints aside, James did not do a bad job of it. 

A shout sounded from somewhere behind them; Lily jumped, and his arms tensed around her. Then they parted. 

“Just some bloke calling for his colleague,” James mumbled, pointing at the group who’d just exited the _Prophet_ offices. 

“Oh. Right.” Lily rubbed at her suddenly goose-pimpled arms. “Thank you, for telling me. We should meet before we speak to the prefects — and McGonagall said there are new security measures, so we ought to go over them—”

He put his hands up in surrender. “Slow the hell down, would you? We can talk about it tomorrow.”

“When we meet before we speak to the prefects,” she said pointedly.

“You’re awfully gung-ho about this.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I’m thrilled that this isn’t going to be an absolute disaster—”

“Thanks,” James said sarcastically. 

“—oh, you know that’s not how I meant it. I trust you.”

In her glee she’d gone and embarrassed him; he shuffled his feet and looked at the ground. “Back to Mary’s, then?” 

Lily glanced at her watch. It was nearing two in the morning. If Mary woke up and found her gone, she would be horrified. 

“I suppose so,” she said. “I’ll see you on the train.”

“On the train,” he confirmed.

Lily smiled, scanning the cobblestones for another Apparition-safe point. James began to slouch away.

“Before the prefects’ meeting!” Lily called after him.

“I’ll see you _on the train.”_

* * *

_v. So It Goes with James_

James counted out Sickles and handed them to the fourth year Gryffindor. The boy sat amidst a heap of sweets that looked like a parent’s nightmare, and every child’s vision of heaven. The wrappers were all different from the ones James had grown up with, though.

No Chocolate Frogs and Cockroach Clusters here. Instead, he saw lollies _not_ flavoured like blood — the Muggles had the right idea there, he reckoned — and Cadbury and Maltesers and Dip Dabs and Flyers. A choice selection of these was scooped into a paper bag and handed over to him in exchange for the money.

“Thanks,” said the boy, who James thought was called something like Lionel… Only he couldn’t remember a last name.

“Hiya, James,” Niamh Campbell chirped at him. She had several strings of licorice in hand, but she did not look at Lionel as she paid him. “Had a good summer?”

“Yeah, pretty good. You?” 

Lionel was very, very slowly counting out James’s change. 

“Oh, lovely. Mum and I went to Greece. Have you ever been?”

Lionel dropped a Knut; muttering, he bent to pick it up.

“Yeah, I have,” said James. “The Parthenon, s’pretty...neat, yeah.”

Niamh laughed, as if he’d said something very funny. “Did you go anywhere?”

“Nah, didn’t get the chance.”

 _“Oh,_ spending the weekends with your girlfriend, I suppose?” She was staring at him with no small amount of curiosity.

James supposed Niamh might be in the same genre of person as Mary, who had a nose for gossip like no one else. But then again, Mary was at least straightforward when she fished, instead of simply...uncomfortable. 

Or was that unfair of him? Maybe Niamh Campbell was just an acquired taste.

James did not much miss the departed older students not in his house, but briefly he wished for the likes of Betty Braithwaite and Bertha Jorkins and the like. At least _they_ were gossipy birds he’d already come to understand. Now he had to go and learn the ropes all over again… 

“Er, not...really. We broke up.” 

It had happened in the week after the Ministry protest, quick and rather painless. He couldn’t say if that was a good sign or a bad one. Had he chosen badly in the first place, or had he moved on at the correct time?

Niamh’s expression twisted into one of extreme compassion. “Sacred Circe, I’m _so_ sorry! I shouldn’t have said anything—”

“No, it’s fine, you couldn’t have known.”

Lionel was still counting change. _Jesus Christ,_ James thought.

“Still,” said Niamh, “I’m sorry for bringing it up.” 

Now she seemed to have got what she’d come for, the vaguely frightening hunger in her gaze faded. James supposed the whole train would know his relationship status shortly. All things considered, not the worst story to tell about him.

“It’s fine,” he said again.

At last Lionel had the exact change, offering it to James, who took it like it was a sip from the Holy Grail. He legged it out of the compartment at once; only two doors down was the Marauders’ usual compartment.

Sirius and Peter were staring at Remus’s mother’s old record player, as if they could will it into working. So nothing had changed, really, since James had left to see about the sweets. He dropped the packet onto the seat between them, then chose the opposite seat to stretch out across. 

“You fixed a motorcycle, and you can’t fix a record player,” James said, flicking a Knut at Sirius. 

“Ahhh, what’s the phrase… Go fuck yourself,” Sirius said, not looking up. “Don’t you have to give head, or something?”

James snorted, resorting to chucking a packet of chocolate foam bananas at him instead. Sirius did not manage to dodge it; the packet thwacked into his forehead, leaving a red mark.

“Don’t you have to make sure everyone’s boarding the train quietly?” said Peter.

“There’s literally Hit Wizards. I think they can handle themselves,” James said drily. “Besides, who’s going to cause a ruckus before we’re even out of King’s Cross?”

Remus arrived in the doorway, out of breath from lugging his trunk. “I am not harassing people on the platform for tokens,” he said irritably. “I am _not.”_

“Nose goes,” Sirius said at once.

Three hands flashed up towards faces. James and Sirius stared Peter down.

“Oh, come on!”

“Fair’s fair, Pete…”

Sighing, Peter left the compartment just as Remus took a seat. He frowned at the record player. “No luck still?”

“Padfoot is trying to fix it the Muggle way,” James explained. “Go on, tell him how well that’s going. There goes your dream of being a handyman.” 

Sirius had got it into his head that he needed to make his own gold in order to purchase the motorcycle from the museum, and refused to hear James’s offers to help. The way James saw it, he could well manage to annoy his best mate into conceding.

“Poorly.” Sirius nudged it away. “What the hell did your mum do to it, Moony? It’s worse than the bloody motorcycle.”

“If I’d known you were going to be so annoying about it, I would just have done a repairing charm myself—”

“I’ll fix it, don’t get on my case—”

“Well, we lose access to Prongs’s player _today—”_

“Please, children,” James said grandly, “you needn’t fight over me.”

“We’re not,” said Remus. “We’re fighting over your record player.”

Sirius was looking out of the window; he straightened, spotting something of interest. “I’ll be back.” 

“You were just gone,” James said.

“And I’ll be gone and back again.” He sauntered out, snatching up the caged kitten he had been clinging to all morning like an anxious mother.

James turned to Remus, who was busily counting through tokens from the tag game. “You know, I’m feeling awfully underappreciated right now.”

“Mummy’s attention not enough for you?” Sebastian Selwyn’s drawl preceded his sneering face. 

At once the two Marauders were on guard, scowling. Belatedly James remembered he was supposed to be responsible. He had already reached for his wand, though he was still reclining along one of the compartment’s seats.

“Clever,” he said. “Now that you’ve got that brilliant dig in, you can move right along.”

“Not likely.” Avery appeared behind him, tailed by Regulus Black and Marcus Rowle.

“Is this the new and improved bunch?” Remus said to James mildly. “It’s not really an improvement, is it?”

“Sod off, Lupin,” Avery said. 

“We get it. Your problem, that is.” James spread his arms wide. “You’ve got to show the whole school that you’re still scary now that Mulciber and Rosier are gone. Is that why you were buying fireworks last week? Planning to celebrate our last year? I’m dead frightened.” He saved an especially caustic glance for Regulus, who did not meet his gaze.

“None of your business,” Selwyn snapped. 

James sighed. “It is _now,_ I’m afraid. D’you think he knows, Moony?” He had his badge tucked away in a pocket. Wearing it before he had to seemed like overkill — and as fond as he was of overkill, James was rather more looking forward to surprised gasps when Dumbledore announced him as Head Boy at the feast.

At least, that was what he was telling himself.

“Doubt it.” Remus turned back to the tokens. “I wouldn’t make the mistake of overestimating his intelligence.”

Selwyn lunged through the propped-open door — but Regulus seized him by the back of his robes, stopping him short. James and Remus still had not given any external indication of their worry, though he could see that his friend’s wand was comfortably within reach.

“Don’t be stupid,” Regulus said, “we’re not here to fight with _them.”_

Remus and James exchanged glances. 

“Who d’you reckon they’re here to fight with?” wondered Remus.

“First years?”

“Come off it. The average eleven-year-old could think them in circles.”

“No, you’re right. I’m not doing them justice, am I?”

“Not at all, Prongs.”

“I owe them an apology.”

“Yeah, reckon you do.”

“You think you’re so ruddy clever,” Selwyn said. He had gone puce with fury, which only made James feel more pleased with the proceedings. “You’ll see — you’ll see when we put you blood traitors and sorry watered-down excuses for wizards in place—”

James laughed, only this time he was not nearly so amused. “Oh, I don’t think so. Certainly not if you lot are their fresh talent.” Once again he considered Sirius’s brother. _“Are_ you?”

“The Dark Lord—” Avery began.

“Voldemort,” James said blithely, “can kiss my arse. Does that sound about right, Moony?”

Remus picked up one of the tokens, examining it more closely. “It does, Prongs.”

“Oh, that reminds me—” James dug through his pocket, avoiding the badge and pulling out his own token. 

The engraving upon it had changed to signal his loss, but the name of his last target remained. He did not trace a thumb over Lily’s name; he did not hesitate before tossing it at his friend.

“There’s mine.” He glanced back at the Slytherins. “Don’t be upset. If you ever learn to be decent human beings, we’ll happily let you play.”

 _“Ignore_ him.” Regulus pulled more insistently at Selwyn.

“C’mon, it’s this one here,” Avery said. The Slytherins trooped past with no more fuss.

“What are they doing?” Remus looked up at the doorway, frowning.

Sirius ambled back into the compartment, distracting them for a moment. “What’d I miss?” Without waiting for an answer, he flopped onto the seat and picked up the choc bananas that James had thrown at him earlier. “You know, I love these things, but they _do_ look like absolute dogshit. And I would know.”

James was scrambling onto his feet before he had fully put together his own realisation. 

“The kid selling Muggle sweets — he’s one door down.” 

He swung out into the corridor just in time to hear a bang and a yelp. Hit Wizards at the end of the train were striding towards them. But in the few seconds it would take for them to arrive, Merlin only knew what they’d have done to the fourth year—

“Out of the damn way—” James pushed past Rowle and hauled Selwyn bodily out of the compartment, shoving him up against its door. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

Immediately Selwyn’s wand was pointed right at his face. James didn’t need to search his pockets. He knew exactly where his own wand was — in the compartment he’d just left, on the seat. 

“Don’t touch me,” Selwyn rasped. “Let go of me right now or I’ll—”

But what, exactly, he intended to do would remain a mystery. _“Flipendo!”_ one of the Hit Wizards shouted, forcing the Slytherins back by several paces. The other disarmed Selwyn; James pushed him aside.

Sirius had his wand out, just a few steps behind James. He was considering the Slytherins with a dangerous glint in his eye — avoiding his brother, of course — but with a glance at the Hit Wizards, he reluctantly stowed it away. 

Inside the compartment, Remus was quietly speaking to the frightened fourth year, coaxing him into the corridor. “Tell them what happened.”

Lionel looked at the Hit Wizards with wide eyes. “H-He tried to blow up my sweets—”

James snorted. “Idiot. Does Fizz Wizz frighten you, Selwyn?”

Selwyn looked as though he was about to take a second run at him. Rowle, meanwhile, emerged from the compartment, looking rather nervous. What had he been doing inside it?

“Stay out of this,” one of the Hit Wizards said, drawing James’s attention away from the Slytherin.

He scowled. “You’re _welcome._ These maniacs would’ve jinxed Lionel Ritchie over here into next year—”

“It’s L-Lionel Retchy.”

James blinked at him, aghast. “You’re yanking my wand. _Retchy?”_

Lionel shook his head morosely. “That’s my name. People call me Retch.”

“Fuck. Well, he’s clearly got enough problems without people trying to destroy his sweets.”

The barrel-chested Hit Wizard, plainly the one in charge, did not seem amused. “It’s our job to handle trouble at the school. We’ll only have more issues if students get involved.”

“Well, I’m not just any student,” James began, then stopped. He didn’t want to pull rank, not in front of the Slytherins. It seemed cheap, somehow.

“Pray tell, what are you?” said the Hit Wizard drily.

“A Gryffindor with less sense than a pixie,” Avery jeered. “Of course, that doesn’t make him special, they’re a Knut a dozen—”

 _“Gryffindor.”_ The Hit Wizard shook his head. “Merlin and Morgana, Hogwarts is absurd. Right — you, go...back.” He pointed at Lionel. “We’ll speak to you at the castle. You—” He pointed at the Slytherins. “I want you as far forward on the train as it gets. Go, now.”

With hateful glances at the Marauders, the Slytherins trooped off. Sirius was looking at them like he badly wanted to call them back and finish the fight; James sidled back to him, ready to intervene if any sort of conflict broke out again.

But it seemed their only remaining problem would be the Hit Wizards. “You, we’ll see you at the castle as well. Playing the hero only gets you hu—”

“Remus Lupin, seventh year Prefect.” Remus held out his hand pointedly. The Hit Wizard shook it with a sigh. “This is James Potter, Head Boy. We’re not playing the hero. We’re trying to keep our classmates in line.”

Relieved that someone else had said it before he’d had to, James only nodded. (Lionel Retchy’s eyes had grown still wider.) 

“Christ. _Fine._ Don’t get into any more squabbles.”

“We didn’t—” Sirius started.

“Let it _go,”_ Remus hissed.

The Hit Wizards backed off, returning to their stations. James relaxed a little. He turned back to Lionel.

“You all right? They didn’t get you, did they?”

Lionel shook his head. “They were just going for the sweets.”

“Maybe hold off on expanding your sugar empire,” said Sirius, his narrowed gaze still fixed upon the far end of the carriage.

“And you—” Remus frowned at James “—don’t go barging into things without your bloody wand.”

James shrugged. “Aren’t you glad I didn’t hex them?”

“How d’you know my name?” Lionel interrupted.

All three Marauders stared at him.

“Really?” Remus said, exasperated. “After what’s just happened, _that’s_ what you want to ask?”

“I keep close tabs on fourth year Gryffindors,” James said, very seriously. “Future Quidditch captains in the making.”

Lionel winced. “I hate flying.”

James tried not to look too dismayed. “Well...I’m sure we can find some use for you...somewhere.”

 _“Prongs,”_ Remus said.

“What? That wasn’t rude, that was a compliment—”

At that very moment, Peter appeared in the corridor behind them, tokens clutched in his hands. “What’d I miss?” he said, in a reasonable imitation of Sirius.

“A new friend. We’re spending the train ride with Retch here,” James said.

Peter gave the boy a doubtful once-over. “All right… Are we moving, or is he?”

“I’ll move,” Lionel said quickly.

“I like him,” declared Sirius.

Shortly after the train began to move, James made his way up the carriages, tailed by Remus. 

“Do I really need to change into the uniform already?” James said distastefully. The train was too stuffy for that kind of thing — or so he’d always thought.

“Make _some_ kind of effort,” said Remus. “Lily certainly will.”

That much was true. It was enough to persuade James to change halfway, leaving off the robes but replacing his jeans and the Kinks T-shirt for the standard shirt, trousers, and tie. He compromised by rolling up his sleeves.

“Badge,” Remus reminded him as they approached the prefects’ compartment.

“Everyone will know why I’m there, come off it.”

“Lupin!” This came from Bertram Aubrey, who had slid open his compartment door and was watching the Marauders with an almost frightening eagerness. “Is it you, then?”

Oh, God. James could not wait to see the look on his face — but at the same time, he had no desire to be gaped at. Not when he was...exactly one minute late to meet Lily. 

“You go ahead,” Remus said out of the corner of his mouth, “but you owe me for this.”

Grinning, James hurried further ahead. He only knew where the prefects’ compartment was in the first place because Remus’s appointment in their fifth year had prompted the other three to formally escort him there. He thought of that day fondly… Merlin, Lily had rolled her eyes at them so much, but she had laughed and asked about their summers as well. How things had changed since then — and yet, in some ways they were much the same.

Voices were audible through the door — Lily’s, and a lower one, a familiar one… James stilled. He did not _mean_ to eavesdrop, but…

“—left Cokeworth,” Snape was saying. “When did that happen?”

“April,” Lily said stiffly. 

“You didn’t say.”

“I didn’t think I had to. Why should I care about you when it’s so clear you don’t care about me?”

“Of course I care!” Snape spluttered.

James’s scowl deepened.

“Of course I care… Lily, you can’t really mean it, about us not being friends anymore—”

“Was last year nothing to you?” Her voice had sharpened. “I wasn’t freezing you out to punish you, Severus. I was treating you how I _plan_ on treating you from now on.”

Silence.

“If you could step out for a moment, the Head Boy and I are meeting.”

“Wait — wait just a minute—”

“You go, or I will.”

That, James judged, was his cue. He slid open the door. The compartment was indeed empty save for Snape and Lily; the latter nodded at him, while the former shot him a glare. Nothing he wasn’t used to, at this point. 

James chose a seat and reclined into it. “You heard her, Snape. Run along.”

Lily gave him a look that was part plea, part warning. James understood the meaning of it — _don’t antagonise him._ Well, he would do his best. Sort of.

“She has a meeting,” Snape sneered. “I’m not leaving until you do.”

“Oh, for crying—” Lily began.

James dug the badge out of his pocket and tossed it at Snape. He swatted it out of the air, and it landed somewhere on the carriage floor. James sighed. 

“Seriously? I’d managed not to dent it thus far—” With a flick of his wand, he summoned the badge. “D’you want to try that again?”

But Snape had caught on. Pale with shock — or horror? — he glanced between Lily and James in disbelief.

“There’s no way,” he breathed, “there’s no way they actually gave it to _you—”_

“You know, that’s what I said, too,” James said. “God, that feels wrong.”

Snape stared at Lily next.

“Don’t look at her, it’s not as though _she_ picked me.”

Lily had crossed her arms over her chest. “James, stop it.”

Snape twitched, as if physically recoiling. Against his better instincts, James was more than a little delighted to see it. 

“I’ve stopped,” he told Lily. “Sorry I’m late, there was this business with Muggle sweets and Lionel Retchy—” He threw Snape a pointed look. “This is when you leave.”

At last it seemed to dawn on Snape that he had no support among present company. He strode out of the compartment, still looking sullen. Lily’s shoulders sagged at his exit, though James noticed that she pulled herself upright at once.

She sat down then, removing a notebook from her shoulder bag. “Right, I’ve made a list of things we should go over. I reckon we can do patrols and the like tomorrow — they won’t begin until next week anyway. Are you all right if I take point on them? That’d be easier, since I’ve seen what they’re like.”

James hesitated. “I mean, if that’s easier. I don’t want to slow you down. But I also don’t want you doing all the work. We’re supposed to be splitting it, anyway.”

She looked a little taken aback. “Oh. Of course. We can go over everything…”

“Fair’s fair.”

“Right. Then there’s the Hit Wizards — I expect you’ve seen them.”

He scoffed. “What a load of tossers. You ought to have been there when the Slytherins tried to stop Lionel Retchy from selling the sweets—”

“When the Slytherins _what?”_

So James told her what had happened, from Selwyn’s attempted spell to the Hit Wizards’ halfhearted discipline. When he’d finished, she shook her head, pressing a hand to her temple.

“I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah, me neither. I mean, what kind of last name is _Retchy?_ And my dad’s called Fleamont.”

Lily gave him a stern look that was undercut by her laugh. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

He shrugged. “That’s how they are, Evans. I don’t think they’re exactly willing to listen to reason at this point.”

“You don’t have to tell _me.”_ She consulted her list again. “We can have the first prefects’ meeting this weekend, maybe. I doubt we’ll need to schedule around Duelling Club, since the Aurors are gone…”

“Maybe it’s better that Avery and his cronies don’t learn any more combat magic,” said James darkly.

“...and normally we’re flexible until Quidditch season, since practice gets in the way of everything around then…” Lily glanced up at him, tucking a stray lock of hair behind one ear. “Lucky you, Gryffindor practice will always be safe now.”

“Gryffindor practice has always been safe,” James said, grinning. “Remus became prefect the same year I got captain.”

Her mouth fell open. “Underhand.”

“Sure, if using the tools available to you counts as underhand.”

_“Devious.”_

“Sure, if using your brain counts as devious.”

She rolled her eyes. “In any case, I know you prefer to practice at ungodly hours, so all we’ll need to do is ensure we don’t have late meetings the nights before.”

“Excellent.”

“And...I saved best for last.” She met his gaze, a wry smile playing at her lips. “We’ll need to set a password for our office.”

James put his hands behind his head, tilting his chair onto its hind legs. That really _was_ best for last. “How about Retch?”

“Absolutely not. If I get one veto, I’m using it to make sure the password to the Head Office isn’t a fourth year’s unfortunate nickname.”

“Celestina?”

“Warbeck?” said Lily, incredulous. _“Why?”_

“How about…December, 1963?”

“Oh, what a night,” came the dry response. “I’ll forget it.”

James scoffed. “You, of all people, won’t forget a password. Okay, listen — Polly Potter poked a pair of Plimpies—”

Lily burst into laughter. “Excuse me? Who on earth is Polly Potter? It’s Peter Piper, and he picks a peck of pickled peppers—”

He was shaking his head at once. “Come off it, Evans. Everyone knows about Polly and the Plimpies.”

“Do they? A relative of yours, is she?”

James gave a modest shrug. “We Potters do make our mark on history.”

Despite the hand she had clamped over her mouth, her shoulders still shook with mirth. “Stop it. _Stop_ it, or I’ll be laughing even after everyone else shows—”

“I think that’ll be it, then. Polly Potter—”

“No!”

“Ah, Evans, you’ve used your veto already. Retch or Polly? You decide.” He waggled his eyebrows, and it took her visible effort not to begin laughing again.

“Polly it is. I’d rather say a whole tongue twister than _retch,_ no offence to the poor guy.”

“I think he’s made his peace with it.”

The door slid open, revealing the first of the prefects: eager fifth years, who looked no less excited when they spotted James. 

“You should put the badge on,” said Lily in an undertone, still smiling. 

“If you insist…” He pinned it on, conscious of the staring fifth years. “Listen, you should take the lead today.”

She nodded briskly. “Until you’re caught up to speed—”

“No, I mean, you ought to take the lead today, because you’re the one who’s been working for this for two years.”

James wasn’t sure what compelled him to say it. Lily’s expression was unreadable; he counted three quick breaths before she said, “All right. Thank you.”

He nodded. “Trying to respect our last straw dictat, is all.” 

Her brows rose infinitesimally. “Right. That.” New arrivals in the doorway saved him from saying anything more.

None were more surprised to see James than his fellow seventh years, though some hid it better than others, of course. Emmeline Vance simply arched an eyebrow at him. Gaurav Singh gave him a friendly smile. On the other hand, Bertram Aubrey quite literally went ashen. For someone rather used to basking in attention, James was almost beginning to feel unnerved by the spotlight.

At least there was Remus, who took the seat on James’s other side. His friend’s steady presence counterbalanced the return of Snape, and Thalia Greengrass.

“Oh, you’ve got to be _kidding,”_ she said. “First the Mudblood, then the joke?”

The reaction in the room was immediate. Amelia Bones gasped; several younger students who’d been talking amongst themselves fell into a terrified silence. James half-rose out of his seat — he had not worked out what he intended to do — but Lily hauled him down again. He sat with a thump, glaring.

“Thirty points from Slytherin,” said Lily coolly. “Thank you, Thalia, for giving me such a smooth segue to one of the first rules I wanted to address. I expect prefects to penalise students for using bigoted language in the corridors. We’re making it a formal rule.”

James nodded his agreement, trying not to grin. Thalia Greengrass scowled.

“If anyone tries to kick up a fuss about it, please send them my way, or James’s.” 

No one said a word.

“That’s all of us, yeah?” James aimed his wand at the compartment door, which snapped shut. “Great. We can get started.” He gestured for Lily to go ahead. She smiled at him, briefly, before turning to the others.

When James and Remus returned to the compartment, there were now three people staring at the record player.

“I hear Retch has laser vision,” James said. “That ought to be helpful.”

“We’ve fixed it,” said Sirius loftily, “no thanks to you two.”

Remus shrugged, sitting down. “I’ve been offering to enchant it for over a week.”

“Padfoot loves a project,” said James. “Go on, then, put something on. I want to be able to laugh at you if you’re wrong.”

“We tried it out before you got here,” Peter said. “We knew this moment would come.”

“The Who, maybe?” Sirius shot James an enigmatic look. 

“I’ll never say no to the Who.” He searched through the pile of sweets that remained of what he’d bought earlier. “Say, Retch, do we get a discount for being your bodyguards?”

Lionel sighed. “I’ve lost some of my stock. So...no discount.”

“Lost?” Remus frowned.

“I reckon one of the Slytherins took some.”

James groaned. “Fucking Rowle — I knew he was trying something. Don’t worry, Retch, we’ll get it back. Merlin knows they won’t put Muggle stuff in their precious wizard stomachs.”

That seemed to cheer Lionel up. James found a packet of some violently red string called strawberry shoelaces, and tore it open. Sirius had finished rooting through Remus’s trunk — ignoring all his warnings about not messing up the contents — and sat down with a record in hand.

“You want to do the honours, Wormtail?”

“Please, it’s all yours, Padfoot.”

“And I thought _Retch_ was a weird nickname,” said Lionel.

“It is,” said James.

With all the solemnity of a clergyman, Sirius painstakingly positioned the needle and dropped it. At once it was obvious why Sirius had suggested the Who, because the song that began to play — only a little more crackly than James’s newer player sounded — was “Pictures of Lily.”

He rolled his eyes at Sirius. “Clever.”

“You listen to Muggle music?” Lionel said.

“Sure. Doesn’t everyone with taste?”

“I suppose I thought… Well, you’re very magical, is all.”

James wondered if Lionel was Muggleborn, then. “So’re you,” he pointed out. “Once you’ve done it, you’ve done it — magic leaves its mark.”

Lionel considered this quietly. Sirius was humming along. Peter seemed torn between amusement and apology. Remus had sighed, but was now tapping his foot along with the song. All five boys listened in silence until “My Generation” came on. 

“So you _are_ over her — ’bout time!” said Sirius with gusto.

James laughed. “Come off it. You _have_ listened to the song, haven’t you? The whole point is the guy who doesn’t realise she’s on a poster and isn’t his actual girlfriend. He’s delusional.”

“I think that’s growth, Prongs,” said Peter.

“Seconded,” said Remus.

“Thirded, and entered into the official meeting minutes. Prongs has _grown,”_ said Sirius.

“Hang on, who are we talking about?” said Lionel.

“Last carriage.” James jerked his thumb at it. 

“You’re stuck with us,” called Sirius from within it.

“I suppose I am,” said Lily. 

She climbed in before James — Peter squeezed between Remus and Sirius, and she thanked him for it — and he sat next to her. The door clicked shut. The carriage began to move.

The Marauders did not speak, each of them watching Lily as if trying to judge this unknown entity. She wasn’t looking at any of them, though. She was staring out of the carriage intently.

“What’re we looking for?” Peter said.

“The castle,” said James.

Lily turned back at that. “What?”

“The castle.” He wished that he hadn’t said anything at all. “Everyone waits for the first glimpse of the castle when they’re taking the carriage up to school…”

“Everyone?” Sirius said. Remus elbowed him.

But Lily seemed to accept this explanation. Not trusting himself to say anything else, James searched for the familiar silhouette of the castle through the trees. He sensed rather than saw the other three doing the same.

Even if he hadn’t spotted the top of the Astronomy Tower, James would have known when it came into view. Lily exhaled sharply; Sirius sat up a little straighter; Peter stopped fidgeting. The rest of Hogwarts rose up over the horizon, moonlight dappling its turrets. James was not one for melancholy, but briefly he wondered if he would ever know a place so well as he did this castle.

The spell did not lift, not even when the carriage juddered to a stop outside the doors. There was no clever crack from Sirius, no wry comment from Remus: nothing. All five of them were content to watch, to memorise.

Peter went in first, then Remus, then Sirius. With one last backward glance — though what she was looking for, James could not say — Lily followed. Letting out a breath, James stepped through the double doors last of all. They thudded shut behind him.

But instead of a nearly-empty Entrance Hall, they had walked into a glut of students. 

“What’s happening?” Remus said. “Why haven’t we been let in yet?”

A mousy Ravenclaw nearby informed them that the Hit Wizards were inspecting the Great Hall, and so they would be waiting until it was safe. James snorted. _Safe,_ his arse.

“We ought to go to McGonagall,” Lily said. “She might need us for something.”

“Oh. Right.” James glanced at his friends. “I’ll, er, see you inside, then.”

They began the arduous push through the crowd towards McGonagall on its far side. James’s height helped, but by and large everyone seemed too annoyed to give way. More than a few students had broken out Muggle sweets, passing them around. His stomach gave a low grumble at the sight.

“If only we could just _Flipendo_ ourselves a way through,” Lily muttered.

“That’s not very Head Girl of you, Evans.”

“I’m not feeling very Head Girl at the moment.”

The crowd was vaguely sorted by house; at present they were moving from the Ravenclaws to the Slytherins. James wondered if they would be better off taking the long way around. More than a few students gave them dirty looks. If Lily noticed, she said nothing.

“—can’t _fathom_ the kind of people they’re elevating at school these days,” one witch whispered. “Rabble, honestly…”

James found his wand in his pocket.

“I _know._ They steal magic, and then they steal—”

“Come on,” James said in an undertone, “we’re not going to just listen to this, are we?”

“Stiff upper lip.” But high spots of colour had begun to appear on Lily’s cheeks. 

“Seriously?”

“Please, James, causing a scene won’t help.”

He begged to differ. But he held his tongue until they crossed towards the Hufflepuffs. 

“We ought to stop and grab a Curly Wurly, for all that we’re making any progress towards McGonagall.”

“Maybe they’ll open the doors now,” said Lily, but they could both hear the doubt in her voice.

James eyed the Fizz Wizz box in one sixth year’s hand. “Maybe we ought to get a snack.”

The sixth year worked the box open and began to shake it. And then, all of a sudden, there was an ear-splitting bang. Someone had pulled James to the floor — his ears were ringing, though he was dimly aware that people were screaming—

It was Lily, he realised, who’d clamped a hand around his wrist and dragged him with her. She did not look afraid, even though green light illuminated her determined frown—

“—fireworks,” she was saying, “They’re only _fireworks_ — _Evanesco!”_

James came to his senses and pointed his wand at the ceiling as well, where the showers of sparks from the fireworks continued to burst and crackle into green-tinted smoke. _“Evanesco!”_ he shouted, and in short order the noise and light both vanished into nothingness.

Panting, he surveyed the students around them — many had huddled together in fear, and still more had dropped to the floor. The screaming, at least, had subsided. Only Lily met his gaze, her green eyes narrowed in fury.

“It was only fireworks,” James said, and was surprised to find that his voice filled the enormous Entrance Hall, even packed as it was with bodies. “Just...Filibuster’s. Charm-activated noise-makers, by the sound of it.”

“Oh, thank _Merlin,”_ said someone nearby. Thalia Greengrass stood and brushed down her robes, scowling. The other students, realising they were not in danger, followed suit, and the hall filled with nervous conversation.

James spotted Selwyn near her, and Avery and Snape and Rowle too. He did not think; he moved.

Or at least, he tried to. Lily caught him by the arm and swung him around to face her with such force, it was all he could do to keep himself from knocking her over. Where on earth had she gotten that sort of strength from?

Anger, evidently. “What — do — you — think — you’re — _doing?”_ she bit out.

“What do _you_ think?” he retorted. “It was obviously them — they were messing around with the sweets earlier — someone’s got to make them pay—”

“And it won’t be you, Head Boy! Or have you forgotten already?”

Truthfully, he had, but James was not about to admit it. He stared her down without hesitation. “Someone could’ve been hurt. _Seriously_ hurt.”

She shook her head. “You think I don’t know that? But tell me what going there and hexing them would solve.”

“It would make me feel a great deal better.”

“But it’s not about _you._ You’re not helping by getting yourself hurt or in trouble. You’re proving them right.”

“Proving them right?” James grew incredulous. “About what?”

She threw hands up in exasperation. “Don’t you see, James? They can’t wait to rile up someone like you or Sirius to the point that you really give it back to them — and then _you’ll_ be expelled. _Your_ wand snapped. You do remember that you’re of age?”

He recognised where this was coming from. “That’s rich of you, telling me what _I_ told _you_ after you went after Rosier.”

“I’m telling it to you because you were right!” Lily hissed. “Don’t throw yourself on a sword for a cause that doesn’t need your sacrifice.”

He drew back, clenching his jaw. “Fine. You’ve made your point.”

“Good,” she said, her voice clipped. “I’d rather be the villain here than see you tortured again.”

James started at that; Lily had already turned away, pushing through the much more tractable crowd towards the staircase.

“Evans, wait—”

“Fireworks!” McGonagall was saying furiously. “What possessed you to bring in _fireworks—”_

“It wasn’t me!” squeaked the third year she was addressing. “Honest, Professor—”

“We know where they came from,” said Lily, stopping short in front of the deputy headmistress.

McGonagall took one look at her and James, and drew herself up to her full height. “The headmaster should have returned by now. I’ll see you both in his office, in five minutes.” She turned to James. “I trust you remember how to find it.”

He suppressed a wince. “Yeah, I remember.”

She strode away in a swirl of robes. The other teachers had arrived for crowd control, at the top of the staircase; at once they set about restoring order, soothing the younger students, some of whom were near tears. 

“I’ll meet you back here in a second,” Lily told James, and disappeared before he could protest.

He hovered at the foot of the stairs. He felt restless with the need to do something, but there was little else left to do. Apparently the Hit Witches were unmoved by this chaos, and still would not let anyone into the Great Hall. Probably they would need twice as long to check for security risks now…

“Let’s go.” Lily had reappeared with a Fizz Wizz box in her hand; she pocketed it.

“Evidence. Clever,” James said. She did not reply.

They were on the third floor when he attempted to speak to her again.

“I’m sorry. You’re not the villain, and I don’t mean to make you out as one,” James said.

Lily seemed to thaw a little. “It’s hard enough—” her voice trembled, but did not give way “—that I have to deal with the likes of Greengrass. And I know you mean well. But I don’t want to have to fight you _and_ all of them.”

He nodded slowly. “Right. I should’ve thought of that.” 

He thought of the last straw, and second chances given time and time again.

“It’s all right.” She slanted him a tentative smile, a peace offering. “We’re a team, you know.”

* * *

_Postlude Two: The Feast At Last_

All in all it was a solid half-hour before the Hit Wizard squad decreed the Great Hall safe for reentry, _and_ confiscated all the Muggle sweets in the Entrance Hall (to everyone’s vocal dismay). Lily felt sorriest for the first years, who had arrived at the castle to find an entire school’s worth of crabby students instead of the magical beginning they deserved.

She and James had spent fifteen minutes in Dumbledore’s office explaining what had happened — they would have to go back again after supper for the regular introductory meeting. The headmaster had listened, expression grave, to the whole story without saying anything.

“I think it would be a good idea to return the sweets that aren’t fireworks in disguise,” said James, before the headmaster could get a word in edgewise.

Dumbledore hummed. “Yes, I am inclined to agree. But I’m curious — why do _you_ think so?”

“The Slytherins—”

“The culprits,” McGonagall corrected.

“The culprits,” James conceded, “did this because they wanted people to be afraid of Muggle things. I mean, these are the sorts of sweets Muggle-born students get in the post all the time. If we tiptoe around acting like they’re all liable to blow up, people will start thinking that Muggleborns aren’t trustworthy, and that Retch did all this on purpose.”

Lily had stared at him, a little bit awed. McGonagall had said, “Did you say _wretch,_ Potter?”

Now, halfway through the Sorting, the students still had not fully settled back into the evening’s usual routine. Despite the proceedings and prefects’ best attempts to hush their housemates, a low murmur of conversation filled the Great Hall.

“But why would Dumbledore have left the castle on the very first day of term?” Doe whispered.

Lily shrugged. “I didn’t get a chance to ask.”

“You don’t think it’s a Ministry thing?”

“If it is, we might hear on the news soon enough,” Germaine said.

“Or he might tell us right after this,” Mary said.

“Murray, Aislinn,” called McGonagall. A pregnant pause, then—

 _“GRYFFINDOR!”_ the Sorting Hat roared.

The girls stopped their conversation to politely applaud, as a small, beaming girl took her seat at the front of the table.

“Since when has Dumbledore explained anything he does?” said Germaine. “Besides, if he tells us how he comes and goes then people who want to, I dunno, get at us—”

“The only people interested in tormenting us are our peers,” Lily said smoothly. “I don’t think Dumbledore’s absence makes much difference to Anthony Avery.”

“At least, not as long as his mum’s still around,” muttered Mary. She brightened. “Hey, d’you think we could—”

“Don’t say we should _get rid of_ Avery’s mum,” Doe said, sounding horrified.

“I wasn’t going to! I was going to say we could find a way to remove her from the board...but I wouldn’t be _opposed_ if she vanished, or dropped dead, or—”

“Mary!”

“You make one sixth year cry, you turn into a schemer,” Germaine said.

“She did not cry,” said Mary firmly. “She was faking it. Besides, what would she have to cry over? All I _did_ was tell her—”

“You think you can be me, but new and improved. Let me tell you a few things. One, the only possible improved versions of me are all the versions of me that’ll exist in the future. Two, being a somewhat irrelevant gossip is fun, but if you get too ambitious, Cecily fucking Sprucklin will tell everyone you fucked a guy who once hexed you into the Hospital Wing. 

“Three, it isn’t _cute_ to say things about my mates, so I want you to back the fuck away from them — no coy little ‘Sacred Circe!’ like all you sixth years like to do. I might no longer give a shit what people think of me, but I _will_ get personal if you try any of that crap again. And four — Florence Quaille is one of my mates too, so stay away from her.”

One of the sixth years beside Niamh muttered, “That _wasn’t_ personal?”

“—to be a little nicer.”

Doe gave her a sceptical look. “Niamh wouldn’t even _look_ at me after that.”

“Well, don’t you prefer that she doesn’t?”

“Owens, Edwin…”

_“SLYTHERIN!”_

“Boo,” Germaine said.

Presently the Sorting came to an end, and it seemed that the Great Hall finally was prepared to pay attention. Dumbledore rose to his feet. His robes were an uncharacteristic pale blue, but Lily supposed that matched the sombre occasion a little better than violet would have.

“Welcome, students both new and old, to Hogwarts. First, a sincere apology for this evening’s delays — I am certain that you’re all looking forward to the feast, and so I will keep my opening remarks brief. In trying times we must not allow our foundations to be shaken, by trickery or by bangs and flashes. Rest assured that we are taking student safety as seriously as ever, and our new guests will be of great assistance to that effect.

“And—” Dumbledore paused to scan the room “—rule-breaking of any sort, particularly that which harms fellow students, will not be tolerated.” 

Lily could not remember a time when he had made so serious a pronouncement against mischief. On the whole she’d always thought Dumbledore rather enjoyed students’ harmless pranks. But then again, these incidents were not harmless anymore.

Satisfied by the reception of his proclamation, Dumbledore beamed at them all. “Now, on to lighter business. I am delighted to introduce Gustav Grinch, who will be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts this year—”

“The Grinch?” said Mary gleefully.

Lily had to muffle her laughter with a hand. With his drooping moustache and dour expression, Professor Grinch did indeed resemble...well, _the_ Grinch.

“—a team of Hit Wizards patrolling beyond curfew, led by Mr. Agathangelou—” Dumbledore gestured to the back of the Great Hall, and heads swivelled around to find the broad-shouldered wizard stationed there.

“We are also joined by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s Robin Weddle—”

 _“What?”_ Doe said, perhaps too loudly.

“—yes, believe it or not—”

A few people laughed.

“—who has several years of experience as a crisis management expert. Professor Weddle will lead weekly discussion sessions on current events, and ideally, he will equip you with the skills to manage any crises that might crop up—”

“Like, interpersonal?” Germaine said quietly. “I dunno, that bloke looks about ten. I’m not sure I’d trust his counselling…”

“—and a warm welcome to this year’s Head Boy and Head Girl—”

Lily straightened, feeling the weight of gazes already fixed upon her.

“—both from Gryffindor House, James Potter and Lily Evans.”

In the applause that followed — punctuated by some whooping, and then some laughter, which Lily supposed must have been for James — she glanced along the table, skipping over face after face until she found him. 

James did not look too smug. He had on his trademark crooked grin, yes, but it made him seem less the arrogant berk and more the surprisingly fun authority figure. Lily thought that if she were a first year he would stick in her mind easily. 

He noticed her looking, and raised his goblet in a mock toast. She smiled and mirrored the gesture, though the goblets were, of course, empty. Dumbledore was wishing them all a good year and bidding them to tuck in, but Lily paid him no mind. She felt her goblet grow heavier — how thoughtful that the house elves should fill it directly — and she took a sip of pumpkin juice. James did the same. 

He winked. She rolled her eyes, fondly. She was still shaking her head — smiling to herself — when she turned to the food in front of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's literally 6:30 a.m. but i've hit my second wind so you know what! i'll type out an endnote. i know it was a massive fakeout of me to skip the rest of the summer but i promise you it was not because i am evil (although i am) — it was for the Tension. all the events you hear about will be satisfyingly addressed at some point, and that's authorial Vow right there. i would thank you all for your patience, but you've read 350k of my words so i reckon the only ones still going are the patient ones
> 
> another fulfilled prophecy, and it was a one and done and will not reappear — sirius isn't going to constantly tell james he's over lily lmao. err let's see sorry i keep lying about chapter length i will never say anything about that again. and i hope you are excited for hoggies shenanigans!
> 
> oh also i know there are lots of character names here — rest assured that not everyone is remember-me levels of important, but for now and always i have an updated cast of characters on my tumblr (which i will shortly update...) that pretty reliably lists off useful info about secondary characters you may have forgotten
> 
> anyway, this is a mammoth thank you all for loving my mammoth baby. please do leave a comment if you enjoyed!
> 
> xoxo quibblah


	34. Current Affairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Back at Hogwarts, Lily and James prepare to partner up on Head duties. Mary tells off a gossipy sixth year and comes to a financial agreement with David. Doe is suspicious of the new DMLE crisis negotiator at Hogwarts, with whom she had a run-in at a protest over the summer. Germaine and Emmeline have made up. 
> 
> NOW: The first week of the gang's last year at Hogwarts has an interesting beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to all of you for being so patient, please leave a comment if you enjoyed! Also, last Saturday was CT's one year anniversary (!!!!!) — stay tuned for bonus content on tumblr.

_ i. The Next Day _

On the morning of September second, Lily did not open her eyes when she woke up. The room was gloriously quiet, which meant she’d beaten her alarm clock. Which meant she had a little more time...just a  _ little more time… _

She stretched, yawned — eyes still firmly closed — and turned away from the window, through which the early morning light streamed. She could feel the warmth of it against her skin. She had a room all to herself, plus a loo. No matter the challenges of the job,  _ that _ made Head Girl worth it. She’d have taken it even if Head Boy were...Bertram Aubrey.

Lily smiled to herself, letting out a happy sigh. The year was bright and full of possibility. She could wash her hair, get an early breakfast, and run by the Head Office before her first class, and set the — ridiculous — password. And her good mood would last for the rest of the day… 

“Are you dreaming, or something?”

Lily sat up with a scream, scrabbling away from the voice. Three faces looked back at her: Germaine, Mary, and Dorcas sat at the end of her bed, watching her with troubling intensity.

“H-How did you even  _ get _ in here?” 

Germaine scooted closer to her. “Your door doesn’t lock automatically, Lily.”

“It’s still school, not a hotel,” said Mary, nodding. “We came to make sure you weren’t going to oversleep.”

“And then you scared the wits out of me,” said Lily darkly, pushing off the covers. 

“Sounds like you’ve still got your wits,” Germaine said, “but maybe we’ll realise what we’ve done in class today.”

Germaine was already dressed for the day, as was Doe; Mary was still in her nightclothes. A glance at the clock on her nightstand showed that it was very nearly half past seven. Making a shooing motion with her hand, Lily directed her friends off the bed and began to make it. 

“Is this separation anxiety?” she said wryly, silencing the clock as soon as it went off. 

“It was curiosity. The room looks even bigger in the daytime.” Doe moved towards the window seat, kneeling on the red-and-gold cushion there so she could press her nose up against the glass. “What a view.”

“You’ve got the same one in your dorm.”

“Not the same,” the other three said in unison.

Lily laughed. “Well, since my door doesn’t lock, I suppose you can stroll in at any time.”

“We will,” Mary said. “We do actually have a message, though.”

Her brows rose. “A what?”

Germaine fished a scrap of paper from her pocket and mutely passed it to Lily, who squinted at it in the sunlight.  _ Polly Potter poked a pair of purple Plimpies (forgot the “purple” when I said it to you earlier, Padfoot has informed me of my error). _

“This is it? This is the message?”

“Why’re you looking at  _ us? _ You’re the intended recipient. You know what it means,” Germaine said.

She supposed it meant James had already been to the office. Well, good. It would be good to have a partner who pulled his weight. Her cheery mood followed her into the shower and down to breakfast. 

The first day of classes was a Friday, which boded well not simply because the seventh years had a weekend of breathing room before work really began to pile up. Once the girls had retrieved their schedules from Professor McGonagall, it was plain to see that Fridays were light.

“Double Charms, and  _ Herbology?” _ Germaine said with glee. “It might as well be a day off.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Dorcas said. “N.E.W.T.s might make even Flitwick buck up.” She was frowning at her own timetable. “I wonder what Weddle will be like.”

“You’ll know soon enough,” said Lily, who had just spoken to McGonagall, “and quite up close and personal.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We’re meeting him house by house. So that’s just nine of us Gryffindors.” 

On the whole Lily felt this was the best introduction to a new professor and an entirely foreign class. She trusted her housemates — and that was not to say that she didn’t get along with the Hufflepuffs or Ravenclaws, but given last year’s drama, the lot of them ought to be separated for as long as possible. Or Robin Weddle would be managing a crisis very soon.

“Interesting,” said Mary, her brows raised.

“And we’re first.”

“I don’t trust him,” Dorcas said.

“Really?” said Germaine. “I could never have guessed, not by the look on your face.”

“He hasn’t done anything except be from the Ministry,” said Mary.

Lily hesitated, exchanging a glance with Doe. The other two had not been at the protest, and so had a more forgiving view of Ministry officials in general. From Lily’s understanding she and James had been lucky to interact with Alice and Marlene rather than the older Aurors. 

On the other hand, a class dedicated to discussing current events seemed like a sorely-needed addition to the Hogwarts curriculum. Lily didn’t suppose there was to be a N.E.W.T. exam for the class, either. Wasn’t that low risk and high reward, then?

She drained the last of her orange juice and stood, shouldering her schoolbag. “Come on, we’ve Charms to get to.” 

She had only half paid attention to her breakfast, scanning the table up and down without really knowing why. Now that they were preparing to leave, she realised what was missing — or, rather, who.

“Where are the Marauders?” Lily wondered aloud. She turned to her friends. “Where did James pass on the message?”

“In the common room,” said Germaine.

It wasn’t that she thought they were up to something. She was confident that James took his job seriously. But there was a niggling worry in the back of her mind, like she was missing a piece of a bigger puzzle —  _ don’t manage me,  _ he’d said, and she didn’t want to, but most of all she did not want him to think she would. 

“I’ll swing by the office before class, I think. Go on without me.”

Doe checked her watch. “You’ll be cutting it close.”

“It’s Flitwick, and it’s the very first day. He won’t say anything.” Especially if Lily came with James, who was the best in their year at Charms.

She had spent the previous evening drafting a patrol schedule, since the names and faces of the prefects were fresh in her mind. Whenever was most convenient she would have to run them by James… In fact they ought to choose a regular meeting time, just for the two of them. She dug out the notebook in her schoolbag — for Weddle’s class, although it was now functioning as a journal of sorts — and scrawled a note to herself as she walked. 

Thus lost in her thoughts, Lily paid little attention to what was in front of her, and reached automatically for the doorknob when she arrived at the Head Office. As it turned out, it was unlocked. Inside sat all four Marauders, clustered around the round table, various papers strewn about it. They looked up as she came in, appearing rather caught.

“It’s nearly nine,” said Lily, because she could not think of a non-accusatory way to ask what they were doing. “You lot ought to hurry if you want to make it to Charms on time.”

“We should,” Peter agreed, jumping to his feet and pulling Sirius away. 

“I ought to—” Remus began, looking uncertainly at James.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But—”

“Don’t  _ worry _ about it,” James said again, meaningfully.

Lily waited at the door while the other three filed out. Despite the cryptic conversation, and her evident curiosity, James looked the picture of ease. Lily made her way towards the point deduction forms, remembering that she had Thalia Greengrass to write up.

“What was that about?” she said, rifling through the forms.

“You’ll be late for Charms,” James said instead of answering.

“So will you.”

He only shrugged. Lily inked her quill and began to fill out the form. 

“It was patrol schedules,” said James, after several silent moments had gone by.

Lily paused, and a bead of ink left a splotch on the parchment. “What?”

“Patrol schedules. Remus and I were going over them.”

_ Without me? _ she stopped herself from saying. “Well, I’ve already drafted them until the end of October. I know you said you wanted to be kept abreast of them, so I thought I could show you how I did it — it was a bit complicated, honestly, since we’re an odd number now—”

“Can I see?”

She blinked, set her quill down. “Of course.” Retrieving the parchment from her bag, she crossed the room and slid it across the table towards him.

James gave it more attention than she thought it deserved. As he scanned it, Lily watched him, searching his expression for any clue about his interest. But there was little evidence to be had. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he set the sheet down and met her gaze; she was so startled to have been caught staring that she took a step backwards.

“Moony is patrolling with fifth years,” James said.

“Well, yes.” Lily frowned, dropping into the free seat. “I thought if anyone might put them at ease, it’d be him. It can be quite nerve-wracking, really, doing your first rounds with someone else who’s got no idea—” James was still peering at the parchment, eyes narrowed. “Is something the matter? If Remus doesn’t want to—” But then why hadn’t he told her himself?

“It’s less about the who and more about…” He trailed off. “I thought there would be a pattern.”

“There is,” said Lily, bewildered. “See, the younger students alternate with the older ones...and the later slots are always older…”

“But—” James broke off.

“But what?” At last her impatience was audible in her voice. “If you think they’re wrong—”

“No!” He shook his head. “No, they’re...great.”

“And that surprises you?” She knew that he would not imply she didn’t know what she was doing. So that wasn’t it. But then— Lily’s eyes went wide. “Oh. It’s not the  _ who, _ it’s...when.”

She had made sure Remus was not on patrol the week of a full moon. Of course there were only two between now and the end of October, when they would need to revise schedules to accommodate Quidditch practice and club meetings, but perhaps it was enough that James had noticed. 

“What do you mean?” said James, which she thought was a rather transparent attempt to fish for information.

“I’ve only been patrolling with him for two years, James. I think I can put two and two together and work around his illness.”

“His mum’s illness,” he corrected, wary. “It’s not what you think.”

“You don’t know what I think.” She sighed. He frowned. “I  _ was _ also friends with Severus.”

“And?” James drew back, arms crossed over his chest.

“And, I’ve heard all the theories.” 

“And you don’t think it matters?”

“It matters,” she said, shaking her head, confused. “It matters because — because it’s who he is, but that doesn’t make him any less  _ who he is _ — kind, and clever, and— Oh, even if he weren’t those things he would still be a  _ person.” _

“Really.” His posture had eased a little, but the scepticism remained.

“Well, of course. Is that what this is about?”

James seemed unwilling to give her a straight answer. Lily sighed once more.

“You can tell him it was a fluke, if it’ll make him feel better. But it’s not as though I’ve thought of him any differently since I began to suspect.” She stood, motioning for him to hand over the schedule. “We’re really going to be late for Charms.”

“I know a shortcut,” James said, rising as well. 

She nodded, putting the point deduction form aside for later. The corridors were mostly empty, the morning bell having sounded already. James remained lost in thought; Lily, half a step behind him, watched the set of his shoulders and tried to think of the right thing to say.

“We can swap,” she offered. “I’ll patrol with the younger students, and Remus can patrol with you, and we can make it so you’re not on when it’s a— Well, when it’s that time of the month—”

“It’s fine.” He glanced at her, and now that she could make out his expression more clearly he looked more puzzled than angry. More taken aback than annoyed. “You haven’t done anything  _ wrong. _ The opposite, really. I’m just surprised.”

“That’s me,” said Lily drily, “full of surprises.”

He huffed out a small laugh, the ever-present smile returning to his face. “I probably shouldn’t have been. You’re you, after all.”

She laughed too. “That’s awfully cryptic.” 

This whole morning was turning out to be quite baffling. Lily was relieved at the prospect of straightforward Double Charms soon. Even the most difficult N.E.W.T.-level magic sometimes made more sense than James Potter.

“That’s me,” James said with cheer. “An enigma.”

_ I’ll say, _ Lily thought, but before she could respond he’d grabbed her by the elbow and directed her behind a tapestry. “What on—”

They were not facing a blank wall, but a stairway sloping upward.

“The shortcut,” he explained. “If we hurry we’ll only be a few minutes.”

It was ten past by the time they arrived in the Charms classroom; any hope of escaping the professor’s notice in the usual hubbub vanished as Flitwick welcomed them by name. Sheepish, Lily tried to hang behind James, who did not seem the slightest bit bothered by their tardiness. 

“Partner up, then,” Flitwick squeaked. “As I’m sure you will be doing often this year.”

_ “Aguamenti, _ excellent.” James dropped into a bench, leaning back. He looked more like himself now, with the weight of whatever he’d been pondering either gone or well-hidden. “Ready to use me as target practice, Evans?”

She pointed to the goblet that sat on the desk in front of them. “I’ve got better aim than that.”

“How very like you to turn this into a pissing contest.” He grinned, pulling out his wand. 

Lily followed suit. The spell was a revision from last year, and she’d been quite comfortable with it. So she ought not to have been worried. It was the straightforward, empty-headed magical practice she’d been hoping for.

Instead of beginning the spell, she turned to James, jostling him just as he flicked his wrist. The ensuing jet of water shot straight into the back of Cecily Sprucklin’s head, sliding across and splashing into Bridget Summeridge as well.

“Oh, Merlin,” Lily gasped, “oh, my  _ God, _ I’m so sorry—”

Cecily shrieked; Bridget jumped out of her seat, swearing. James was laughing. “Sorry, Bridge, Cecily— You can blame Evans here—”

Red-faced, Cecily glared at the both of them. Her hair was sopping wet. She looked so comically put-out, and the combination of her expression and James’s unabashed laughter was making it difficult for Lily to keep a straight face in turn.

“It was a-an accident,” said Lily, her voice wavering with held-in mirth as she cast a drying spell.

“Pay attention,” Cecily snapped.

“Oops,” said James under his breath. 

Lily elbowed him. 

“That’s why we got into this mess in the first place, Evans, if you’d stop  _ nudging _ me—”

“I wasn’t nudging you!” But she had meant to ask him— “We’re all right. Aren’t we?”

James’s smile gave way to a more sombre expression. “Yeah. Of course.” 

“Because I don’t want us not to be.” It was important that he understood that. It was important because…

“I know.” A glimmer of concern appeared in his gaze. “Are  _ you _ all right?”

“I’m fine.” And she was. She had woken up in a perfectly good mood, hadn’t she? Only, something felt slightly different, slightly off-kilter, in the serious set of his brows. “I’m fine,” Lily said again, a little more emphatically.

“Okay,” said James, hands up in surrender. “If you want a go at the goblet, be my guest.”

She smoothed away her frown and emptied her mind, focusing on the goblet.  _ Aguamenti _ , she thought, her wand mimicking the motion of a wave, and James’s arm knocked into hers. Evidently Lily’s hand was less steady than his, however; instead of hitting Cecily and Bridget again, water arced over James and Lily themselves and splattered unceremoniously across their heads. 

“Well.” He pushed wet hair out of his face. “That backfired, quite literally.”

“Serves you right,” said Lily, smiling as she swiped her thumbs beneath her eyes, hoping her mascara would not run. “If you want to antagonise Cecily, don’t drag me into it.” 

“I didn’t really have a purpose,” James admitted.

Lily laughed, halfway through detangling damp clumps of her hair. “You’re such a  _ boy.” _

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating,” he said haughtily, taking off his spectacles to wipe the lenses.

“Aim at the goblet, not at each other, Evans, Potter,” Flitwick said as he walked past. 

“Sorry, Professor,” they chorused together. 

Mortified, Lily watched with wide eyes as the Charms professor moved out of earshot. It was entirely unlike Flitwick to  _ patrol _ during class. Perhaps they had spoken too soon in assuming he would not crack down on them this year.

“No nudging,” she told James. “This is a nudging truce.”

“No nudging,” he agreed. “I hear you.”

Wand aimed at the goblet, Lily kept one wary eye on him. “Shall we go on my count?”

“Don’t you trust me?” James also had his wand pointed away from her, but he was still angled towards her side of the bench.

“Given that you just told me you have no idea why you want to start a water fight in class, I’m worried about your inclination towards chaos.”

“You flatter me.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m counting.”

“Go on, then.”

She counted down from three. At the very last second,  _ go _ on the tip of her tongue, he twitched and she started, shooting a jet of water right into his face. He blinked, and it dripped in a steady stream from his chin.

“Duelling Club has really sharpened your reflexes,” said James, once he had stopped spluttering.

“I swear that wasn’t on purpose,” said Lily, giggling more out of embarrassment than anything else. “I just thought that you— Oh, I’m sorry, I feel like such an idiot—”

“Better water than a hex,” he said theatrically.

“Come on,  _ why _ would I hex you?”

“I dunno, this seems like evidence of murderous impulses—”

_ “Please, _ James—”

“Do I need to separate the two of you?” Flitwick said, making both of them jump. He stood directly in front of their desk, only neither of them had noticed. 

“No, Professor,” said Lily quickly. 

“Honestly. It’s the first day of classes, in your N.E.W.T. year.” He eyed them with a mix of exasperation and — thank Merlin — fondness. “I’d like you to take it seriously.”

“Yes, Professor,” said James, with such overdone gravity that Flitwick at once looked more worried than ever. “Hear that, Evans? No more fooling around.”

The rest of the morning proceeded with little other significant event, although when Flitwick directed the class to switch partners Lily was quite convinced she and James were to thank. Herbology, unfortunately, featured Bouncing Bulbs, which left the seventh years scurrying this way and that in pursuit of the things. Two students had a head-on collision, much to Sprout’s dismay.

“You are taking your N.E.W.T.s this year,” she told them, “and I don’t think the examiners will be very impressed with today’s show!”

“Remind me,” grumbled Germaine as the exhausted group trudged towards the castle again, “are we in our N.E.W.T. year? I keep forgetting. If only someone would  _ constantly _ remind us — oh, wait…”

“We haven’t even seen McGonagall yet,” said Sirius grimly. “If you ask me, this is far from the worst of it.”

In the courtyard they met up with Sara and Mary, who did not take Herbology. 

“Where’s Weddle supposed to be, again?” said Peter.

James checked his watch. “Third floor. We’re good on time, I reckon.”

But no sooner had he spoken than Professor Weddle materialised before them, trotting into the courtyard with a notebook tucked under one arm and what looked like a small wooden box in the other.

“Oh, good, I found you,” he said, surveying them as if counting them off in his head. “I thought we might sit by Hagrid’s pumpkin patch, since the weather permits it. God knows we’ll be stuck in the castle for the rest of the year.” He paused here, and when no one objected he nodded to himself. “Brilliant. Come on, then.”

Exchanging glances, the nine Gryffindors followed. 

Lily’s purposeful stride took her near the front of the pack, directly behind Weddle. “Do...the other houses know they ought to come down here afterwards?”

“They don’t, now that you mention it.” Not missing a step, he tore a sheet from his notebook and split it into thirds, produced a quill, scrawled three notes, and magicked them all towards the castle. 

Lily blinked. “That’s a clever trick. With the notes, I mean.”

“Oh, yes, Ministry habit is hard to break.” He smiled. “Only a year ago they were using owls even inside the building. You can imagine what a mess  _ that _ was.”

“I can.” 

“Head Girl, yes?” He pointed at the badge pinned to her chest. “That makes you...Evans.”

“Yes, that’s me.” 

“The teachers have plenty of good things to say about you.” Weddle was watching her closely; the sun was behind him, so Lily could not stare back.

“I hope that’s not just flattery,” she said without thinking, then flushed. Perhaps because he was so ordinary-looking, it was difficult to remember that he was still a teacher. “I mean — Merlin—”

He laughed, waving them on towards the pumpkin patch, and raised his voice to address them all. “You don’t need to worry about formality. I’m not really a professor, anyway.”

Dorcas, sitting down on a pumpkin, narrowed her eyes. “But you’re here to teach us.”

“I’m here to facilitate discussion,” he corrected. 

Lily sat beside her friend, who seemed unduly tense. It was unlike Doe to antagonise any of their teachers, but she supposed the business at the Ministry made her wary of him. Either which way, Lily did not want the sparks of conflict to fan themselves into something worse.

“What sort of discussion?” chimed in Sirius, reclining against an alarmingly green gourd. 

Weddle chuckled. “Straight to the point, aren’t you all? I’d forgotten what it’s like, being around so many Gryffindors.”

“Were you one?” said Germaine, settling in the dirt without a second thought.

He nodded. “Unlikely as it seems.”

His earnest self-effacement made Lily want to throw him a bone. “House distinctions can be overrated,” she offered.

At once Weddle looked intrigued. “Do you all think so?” He had opened his notebook, Lily noticed.

“It’s not as though I’m not smart and loyal and ambitious,” said Doe.

“Name?”

“Dorcas Walker.”

He nodded, wrote it down. “Just taking attendance.”

“Do we get a mark in this class?” said Mary, one eyebrow arched.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, but it’s for participation. Not about right and wrong, so don’t worry about what you say. Name?” He noted it when she told him. “Right, idle chatter aside, the point of this class is to give you the space to talk. We live in fairly trying times, and when you’re young people tell you you don’t know anything and so your opinion doesn’t matter. But it does. And you lot especially, you’re going to be adults very soon. You need to feel comfortable speaking your mind.”

Doe sniffed, ever so quietly.

“We’re going to bring in newspaper clippings to discuss every once in a while,” Weddle continued. “But the way I see it, it’s important to learn how to hear others out just as much as it is to speak. So this class will be an exercise in listening.”

“So...debate?” Mary said.

“If it’s civilised,” he said with a shrug. “For instance, let’s come back to Miss Evans’s statement about house distinctions. Does everyone agree with her?”

“Well,” said Peter, looking rather uncomfortable, “it’s nice to have something to be grouped around.”

“Do you think the house traits are arbitrary distinctions?” said Weddle.

Peter looked even more uneasy. “I didn’t say  _ that.” _

“If we found out the Sorting Hat didn’t really do anything and just tossed us all wherever it pleased, though, I’d feel a bit cheated,” Sara said, smiling at Peter.

“Plenty of Muggle schools do that,” Mary said. 

“Yes, but the problem is that they’re  _ telling _ us it means something. If they put me in Gryffindor because of where my name fell on a list…” Sara shrugged one elegant shoulder. “I wouldn’t mind. But they’ve  _ told _ me it’s because I value certain things.”

“Come off it, a sentient hat shouldn’t be your validation,” said Sirius with a scoff.

“Oh, you  _ would _ say that, Sirius. You’re a cynic.”

“He’s not wrong,” said Lily slowly. “Just because someone tells you you’re brave — well, you don’t stay brave unless you consciously choose to be. You can’t sit back and say what you valued at eleven defines you still. Nor should you, I think.”

“What if you were Sorted again as seventh years?” said Weddle.

“Does it matter?” James said, with some impatience. 

“It doesn’t matter to  _ you?” _ said Germaine, incredulous.

“No. I know who I am.” He shrugged. “I’d be in Gryffindor no matter when you Sorted me.”

“But that’s not the point. Why should your identity be so tethered to your house?” said Doe. She turned towards Weddle. “Do you still value — what is it again,  _ daring, nerve, and chivalry?” _

Clearly caught off guard, he considered a moment before he spoke. “To some extent. Maybe less so than I did once.”

“Aren’t there more important things to debate?” said Remus, quietly. 

“Are there?” said Weddle.

With all eyes on him, Remus shrugged. “There’s a war on.”

Everyone fell silent. Lily took in her friends’ expressions at a glance: Doe’s mulish determination mirroring Sirius and James’s, Germaine’s nervousness matching Sara’s and Peter’s, Mary’s utterly unreadable mask the twin of their teacher’s.

“I think,” Weddle said, “discussing your problems is no more or less important than discussing the greater world’s.”

Colour bloomed in Remus’s cheeks. “Plenty of us have problems that are quite directly related to the greater world’s.”

“You might, or you might not. But considering the personal helps some people think about problems in a broader light.”

Remus muttered something that sounded like  _ some people. _

“Is that what we’ll do, then?” Doe said. “Talk about...personal problems, when we’re not talking about politics?”

“Somewhat.” Weddle had set down the wooden box he’d been carrying. Now he picked it up again, showing them the golden number 7 painted on its front. “That’s where the advice box comes in.”

The tension that had appeared in the group seemed to fade at the sight of this new curiosity. 

“The advice box,” Germaine repeated, eyeing the thing as though it might bite her.

“This will sit outside my office, all hours of the day — although, I suggest you don’t break curfew to slip a note in it,” Weddle said wryly. “Every week we’ll pick a note from the advice box, and talk about someone’s question. If you feel unprepared to speak up, you can write about it in your notebooks.”

Perhaps she had underestimated the quiet, or overestimated her own ability to keep her mouth shut. Either way, Lily’s incredulous half-laugh echoed through the pumpkin patch.

Weddle didn’t seem angry. He raised his brows at her, as if to encourage her to go on.

“You’re going to get dozens of fake questions,” she said, “not to mention — well, no one’s going to air their problems to our entire  _ year!” _

“Oh, I encourage anyone with a serious, pressing concern they want addressed to come to me one on one,” said Weddle, with complete sincerity. “But the box is enchanted to award twenty-five house points to anyone who submits a question. I will weed out the  _ fake questions, _ as you put it, and deduct those points as is appropriate. The spell’s rather elaborate.” 

This time, the hush that fell over them was awed, not grim.

“Twenty-five?” Peter said reverently. “That’s an awful lot of points.”

“That’s the point, forgive the pun,” Weddle said. “We’re building empathy here. I want you to be able to consider the hardships of your fellow students, and respond to them appropriately.”

“No offence, but their hardships will probably be a lot more mundane than you’re making them out to be,” muttered Sirius.

“Be that as it may. You lose points for skiving off, so I expect to see you all next week, ready to discuss whatever we fish out of the box. And if you’re concerned that the entries won’t be worth your time, why, all you need to do is submit sensible ones of your own.”

So this was the proverbial iron hand beneath the velvet glove. Weddle appeared quite unruffled by their dismay, staying silent as they all exchanged glances and comments. Lily had to admire the strategy. People like Remus or Dorcas — or indeed, herself — who might have complained about the tedium this class would bring now had no one to fault for those complaints but themselves. 

“We’re managing everyone’s crises, then,” said Doe, grimacing, “and talking about  _ our _ current affairs.” (Mary mimed gagging.) 

“Bring in a newspaper clipping, Miss Walker,” replied Weddle calmly. 

Lily supposed this was where his crisis negotiation training came in handy. Where before he had appeared likeably boyish, he seemed to have aged before her eyes, an adult sternness in his expression.

“I intend to,” Doe said.

Suddenly, sharply, Weddle broke into a coaxing smile. “Come on, when I was at school we were all busybodies. Aren’t you curious to hear what your classmates are thinking about?”

“There’s such a thing as too much curiosity,” said Germaine under her breath.

Across the circle, though, James, Sirius, and Sara seemed to be considering this with new appreciation. 

“I recommend,” Weddle went on, “everyone submit at least one each month. You’re bright, opinionated students. You can think of something.”

“But you won’t know if we don’t,” Sirius pointed out.

“No.”

“Fair enough. I’m in.”

“I wasn’t asking your permission, Mr. Black, but I’m relieved to have it. Consider it an experiment.”

It was one — and Lily was sure they would all begin to feel like guinea pigs. Conversation moved away from the advice box; it seemed Weddle was content to lead them through more idle chatter, as he put it. Soon enough he was checking his watch and telling them their fifteen minutes were up.

“The Hufflepuffs should be here any moment,” said Weddle, “so I’ll see you all next week.” They stood, collecting their things. Weddle added, “Potter, Evans, a word?”

The others went on without them; James and Lily exchanged glances, stepping closer to Weddle’s pumpkin.

He glanced over his shoulder at the retreating students, then pushed his floppy dark hair from his eyes. “Look, I’ll be frank with you. I don’t fancy talking down to a bunch of of-age witches and wizards, and until I know you all I’m going to have to make sure things don’t get out of hand. Can I count on you both to help keep the peace?”

There was really only one way to answer this question, so Lily nodded without trying to meet James’s gaze again, though she badly wanted to. Weddle broke out into a relieved smile, and he waved them towards the castle.

“I won’t keep you any longer, then.”

Chorusing goodbyes, James and Lily went along the path up to Hogwarts. She waited until Weddle was safely out of earshot before asking, “What did you think of him?”

A meditative furrow appeared between his brows. “Weddle? He seemed fine. Although,  _ he’s  _ supposed to be the crisis negotiator. Why he needs our help is beyond me.”

“And we’re going to?” She elaborated, at his confusion, “Help him, I mean.”

James looked impressed. “Are you suggesting we break the rules?  _ Disobey _ a teacher’s directive?”

Lily did not rise to the bait. “Not exactly. It’s just, it’s all right when we’re arguing about Hogwarts houses. Less so when we’re talking about Death Eaters and he treats both sides as equal.  _ If _ he does.”

“If he does, we’ll be on the same page about it,” said James with a little shrug. “Right?”

That was what she’d been hoping to hear. Lily squared her shoulders and nodded. “Right.”

* * *

_ ii. The Next Week _

The second week of classes was the first proper week of classes, and as such it arrived with all the force and fury of a vengeful classical god. Any semblance of relaxation, for the seventh years, vanished at the sound of the nine o’clock bell on Monday, which signalled the start of Double Transfiguration.

There the circus began. A firm, merciless reminder that they were to write their all-important N.E.W.T. examinations arrived every fifteen seconds or so. McGonagall barked instructions, and sent them away with a five-foot parchment scroll’s worth of homework. Flitwick came thereafter, drilling them on  _ Aguamenti _ once more. Lily was glad she had not elected to continue with Care of Magical Creatures, if Mary and Germaine’s complaints were anything to go by.

When the seventh years stumbled to bed on Monday night, though, they had one interesting thing to look forward to. Tuesday was their first Defence Against the Dark Arts class.

“Well, what’s he like?” asked Doe on Tuesday morning, buttering her toast with a frenzy. Germaine watched the slice with wide eyes, certain it would give way under the stress.

“Sort of...bland,” said Quentin Kravitz, shrugging. “I dunno what else to say.”

“Bland’s not good,” observed Germaine. She had been dragged towards the sixth years the moment Doe realised they had already had a class with Professor Grinch.

“No, it isn’t,” Doe said morosely.

“He looks like he’ll be nicer about our marks than Thorpe,” said Lisa Kelly with a sigh. “She was  _ ruthless.” _

“He’s the second coming of Binns,” Niamh Campbell said, flicking her hair over one shoulder. “Don’t get your hopes up, Dorcas.”

“Bad luck,” said Germaine, patting Doe’s shoulder. 

“Bad luck,” repeated Doe, looking quite aghast. “We lost Thorpe, who was probably the best teacher we’ve had,  _ and _ there’s no Duelling Club, and this is the year I’m applying to the Auror program. And last year they took  _ no one.” _

Germaine sighed. “Look, they’ll take you even if they decide they’re only taking one person.” At Doe’s horrified expression, she added, “Which they won’t be! Look, if you’re so worried, you should find out if anyone we know’s planning to apply. Then at least you’ll know your competition, yeah?”

A frightening determination came over Doe. Germaine wondered if her suggestion had been a bad idea. 

“Brilliant,” Doe breathed, “absolutely brilliant, why haven’t I thought of that before?”

“Er, yeah, happy to help.”

Some enterprising student had spread news of the Dr. Seuss connection, so that even before the seventh years had stepped foot in the DADA classroom they were all referring to their teacher as the Grinch. He greeted them with a frown, his mouth comically downturned — although, Doe was beginning to wonder if that was simply his natural resting expression. 

Though she was preparing herself for the worst —  _ the second coming of Binns, _ said Niamh’s voice in her head — she felt bad for him momentarily. Hopefully no one had told him about how the Grinch stole Christmas.

The class grew hushed in anticipation of his first words. Doe leaned forward in her seat. Her focus was marred, however, by the classroom door opening and closing. She glanced over her shoulder, trying to pick out who had come in, but she could not make out anything amiss amongst the rows of students behind her.

“Good morning, seventh years,” Grinch said, “my name is Gustave Grinch, and I will be your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher this year.”

At once it became clear where the Binns comparison came from. Grinch had something of a slow drone himself. Where the ghostly professor was simply boring, though, Doe thought Grinch was sleep-inducing merely because of how soothing his voice was: rumbling and deep, as though he were a very old man telling a very good bedtime story. 

The rolling melody of his speech was already getting to her. She sat a little straighter and focused on her notes.

“I am told you had a robust education in counterjinxes, countercurses, and the like last year… Very good, as I would like to keep that aside for a moment and brush up on magical creatures first. We will be studying some that you have already considered, such as banshees, but I intend on reviving certain unconsidered creatures in the N.E.W.T. syllabus. Inferi, and Dementors, for a start.” He paused, stroking his wispy, drooping moustache.

“What-ferry?” whispered Germaine.

“Inferi,” Doe hissed, “remember, from History of Magic?”

“Obviously not.”

“They’re the things that Grindelwald — oh, never mind it, you’ll find out.”

“I am sure,” Grinch continued, “that you’ve already been thrown into the deep end with homework this week—” nervous laughter at that “—so I’ll go easy on you, and we will begin with banshees.” The professor’s mouth curled into what appeared to be a grimace; it took Doe and most of the class a moment to realise he was smiling.

“So, please, open your textbooks to page two hundred and two—”

“He’s not so bad,” Doe decided. “I mean, that was a lot more theory than we’ve had in a while, but I suppose it was good to know about banshees.” 

Perhaps the directive to teach more theory had come from higher up. Doe had heard more than a few students suggest that Thorpe’s practical approach might have been what exposed the students who’d attacked her to Dark magic in the first place. 

She thought that was utter rot, of course. It wasn’t as though it was Thorpe’s fault she’d been viciously attacked. Still, other teachers might have thought it better to be safe than sorry.

“It’s weird,” said Bridget Summeridge, who’d fallen into step beside her. “The Ravenclaw fifth years had him yesterday, and they  _ hated _ him.”

Doe frowned. “Well, the sixth years said he was bland…” 

Bridget shook her head. “He taught them about Hinkypunks. That’s, what, third year stuff?”

“But...he’s teaching  _ us _ about Inferi. They say You-Know-Who’s using them. It’s all very current. Why would he teach fifth years something that’s old hat for them?” 

Bridget must have misheard, Doe thought. It was the only thing that made sense. After all, the fifth years, like the seventh years, had a curriculum to follow if they were to pass their exams. Wouldn’t any ordinary professor adhere to the syllabus to a fault?

“D’you think anyone’s put in a question yet?” Mary said, appearing on Doe’s other side. “In the advice box, I mean.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Bridget. “I saw a lot of Hufflepuffs hanging around it yesterday, after Charms.”

Mary looked interested at once. “Which ones?”

Bridget shrugged. “The ones I don’t really know.”

Not Kemi or Gordon, Doe took that to mean. “That’s going to be an unmitigated disaster,” she muttered.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Bridget. They were in the Entrance Hall now, and the chatter meant they all had to speak up to be heard. “I thought Weddle made a decent moderator.”

“You say that like we won’t be talking about who’s sleeping with whom,” Doe said, indignant. “Come on, Bridge, I thought you were sensible.”

Bridget laughed at that. “I might be sensible, but I’m curious too. That’s not a crime, is it?”

_ Curious. _ That was exactly what Weddle had said. Despite herself Doe did wonder...what  _ would _ her classmates submit? Would it be something awful, from a blood purist, perhaps? Would it be something clever and thought-provoking? She was rather braced for a bad time — but Bridget was right.  _ She _ was almost curious too.

In any case she had only a few days before she found out.

* * *

_ iii. The Next Session _

“I don’t want to argue,” Lily said as they made their way up the stairs to the third floor, where the current affairs discussion was supposed to take place. Weddle had evidently chosen to forego the outdoor class environment this time. 

“That’s new,” said James, a pace behind her.

She rolled her eyes. “I see the trap you’ve laid for me, and I’m not falling for it.”

He grinned, putting his hands up in surrender. 

“It’s been a bloody long week,” Peter groused. “I don’t want to argue either. In fact, I don’t even want anyone arguing around me.”

“Maybe it’ll be the good sort of arguing,” said Doe.

“The sort you can ignore?”

“The sort that’s respectful, yet lively.”

“So...not that sort, then.”

“Or—” Doe’s footsteps turned closer to stomps “—they’ll be vapid and empty-headed, since we’re all just children who don’t know any better.” She flapped around the newspaper clippings she had clutched in one hand, nearly hitting Germaine in the face.

“Please,” Germaine groaned, “we’ve talked about it to death, and you’re gonna make us talk about it again in class. Can we have minutes off from that arsehole?”

“I didn’t bring it,” Doe said, her voice sullen. “Why would I want us to discuss  _ him?” _

On this they could all agree; none of the Gryffindors wanted to delve into the matter of the article yet again.

“Did any of you put in a question?” said Remus. 

Lily shook her head no; James did too, while Sirius only scoffed. 

“It’s not as though anyone will tell you,” he pointed out. “Why risk someone figuring out what embarrassing question you have?”

“They might not all be silly,” Lily said. “What if the questions are political too? Wouldn’t that be interesting?”

“What if the questions are from Anthony Avery?” Doe said darkly.

“I think we’re safe on that front,” Remus said. “No chance any of his group actually went to that kind of effort. They probably think they’re above that sort of thing.”

If this was intended to reassure Doe, it did not work. She looked all the more uncomfortable, and Lily could guess why. If the horrible students in their year thought they were too good for the advice box, that meant she and Doe had something in common with them.

But on principle she didn’t think she could do it. Ask the questions, that was. She had her fair share of problems — Petunia came to mind, as did the pang she felt when she thought of her parents — but she had no desire to share them with relative strangers. And if she wasn’t going to ask something that actually mattered, why should she waste everyone’s time with something trivial?

They filtered into the classroom, which was one of the largest on the third floor. It had to be, to fit all of the seventh years. Robin Weddle stood at the door, presumably taking attendance as they walked in. 

“Afternoon,” he called to them, “take a seat — and try to mix, would you?”

The reason for this request was evident at once. Students might not have been arriving in their houses, but they were gravitating towards the same groups. The benches in the room had been separated from their desks and arranged in some semblance of a circle. But without the natural divide of an aisle and rows, it was even more obvious that people were sitting with their housemates. 

“Are we going to be the first ones to  _ mix, _ then?” Germaine said in an undertone. 

Lily thought of how earnest Weddle was, and once again she felt she ought to be accommodating. It wouldn’t hurt, anyway. 

“I think we are,” she said. “C’mon.”

“What?” Germaine resisted as Lily took her by the elbow. “Oh, can’t you take Mary or Doe or literally anyone else?”

“They’re our classmates. They’re not going to bite.”

She avoided the Slytherins anyway, making a beeline for a girl in a Hufflepuff tie. Germaine hissed  _ Lily, no! _ But only after she sat down, pulling her friend with her, did she realise why. The girl was Cecily Sprucklin, and she gave them both a deeply poisonous look before staring away from them.

“Would it be too rude to get up and go somewhere else now?” Germaine said.

Lily sighed. “Let’s just stay. We have each other for company.” She withdrew a Self-Inking Quill and cracked open her notebook to its fresh first page — her to-do lists and doodles littered the back.

“Don’t get too comfortable in your chairs, we’ll be doing a quick exercise to get to know each other,” Weddle called, shutting the door.

Germaine and Lily exchanged glances.

“We already know each other,” whispered Germaine.

Lily snorted. “Be honest, you couldn’t even name half of them.”

“We-ell…”

“And you should be pleased.” She lowered her voice. “Maybe we can end up away from Cecily.”

Germaine brightened. 

“Right, I want you all to make two columns. In the first, write down twenty things about yourself. They should be character traits, things you value — and they needn’t all be good things. Don’t be afraid to be honest.” The way he said it, so matter-of-factly, made it seem like confessing the inner workings of your mind to your teenage peers was really that straightforward. “Take two minutes.”

Everyone glanced around the room before bending to their work. Touching the tip of her quill to parchment, Lily thought she had forgotten every single fact about herself she had ever been conscious of. 

_ I’m a good friend, _ she began, which was awfully boring, but she could work her way up to being more interesting.  _ I’m hardworking.  _ She peeked at Cecily’s list, and found that the girl was halfway down the page. Was Lily just slower than her, or did she know herself less?

Panicking a little, she wrote  _ I’m passionate about the things I believe in _ . _ I try to be kind. I try to be forgiving. _

So the list continued until she counted off twenty items, all varying levels of trite. Or so it seemed to Lily, who winced at the result but supposed she would not be too embarrassed to share if called upon. 

“Thirty more seconds, then let’s wind up,” Weddle intoned.

Lily took the opportunity to survey her classmates. Weddle’s instructions to mix had paid off more than she’d expected. The Marauders had split half and half amidst some Hufflepuffs, Mary and Doe were with an assortment of students, and even the Slytherins had spread out. 

Not Severus and Avery, though. They were together, looking as though they were hating every minute of this. Their group, she noticed, seemed off-kilter with Mulciber expelled and Thalia Greengrass off with some Slytherin girls. Then again, they had replaced Mulciber with sixth years, so the circumstances were stacked against them.

“That’s that. On your feet, please.” Weddle waved them up like a conductor to an orchestra, and the classroom was full of rustling robes as the students obeyed.

“Take your books with you, and try to find at least two people who share each trait with you. And  _ try _ not to just swap lists with your neighbours, yeah?”

A murmur of nervous laughter. Germaine swore. “That was the plan.”

“It’s all right,” said Lily, studying her book. “I said I’m competitive, maybe you’ve got that?”

“Oh, yep.” Germaine paused to make a note. “See you around, then.”

While she got up to find someone else, Lily turned to her other side, where Cecily stood wearing the same distasteful expression as before. She had gravitated towards the other girl, she realised, because she’d been sitting alone. 

Maybe Cecily  _ was _ just a bitch. It wasn’t Lily’s place to forgive her for what she’d said about Mary, nor did she want to. But she couldn’t just ignore her either.

“I’m sure we have something in common,” Lily said, offering her a polite smile. Nothing more.

At least Cecily seemed to thaw a little at the friendly overture. “Probably,” she agreed. 

Lily considered her own list, wincing inwardly at  _ I’m a good friend _ right at the top. “Er — I’m not athletic?” 

“Oh, yes, I’m not sporty.” With a stiff nod, Cecily backed away from her. “We should circulate.”

Lily gladly did, searching for friendlier faces. She and Lottie Fenwick both tried to be kind; Lottie laughed, pointing out they had phrased the point the same way too. She and Chris Townes had senses of humour. She and Amelia Bones were hard workers. Lily angled for Mary and Doe, certain that they could all cross off some items, but the first Gryffindor she ran into was Remus.

“Oh, good, someone sensible,” Lily said, the cheer in her voice notched a little higher than it normally would have been. 

James had convinced her not to speak with Remus about the patrols, saying it would only mortify him further. So she had not. She had tried to seek him out, if only just to be a friend. The only thing that had achieved was confirmation that he was avoiding her.

He could not do so now, though, with their classmates in a slow-moving swarm around them. They both realised it at the same moment.

“I could say the same,” Remus replied.

“So...I’m not a morning person,” she said, when he did not offer up a trait of his own. “I’m passionate about my ideals. I...work hard…” 

Lily trailed off. This was  _ not _ the place for this conversation. No, it was up to him to dictate the terms of when and where it took place, if at all. It was his secret to share. And the idea that it had got out — even if just by supposition — was a violation.

She had never intended for him to  _ know, _ not unless he had decided to tell her. Lily became aware, gradually, that she was grimacing as if braced for a physical blow. She smoothed down her expression at once. 

“I’ll find someone else,” Lily said quickly. 

Remus was looking at her notebook. “You  _ are _ a good friend,” he said, his voice rather hoarse.

She met his gaze, hopeful. “So are you.” His smile turned faintly self-deprecating, so Lily insisted, “So are you, Remus Lupin. Write it down, if you haven’t already.”

“We’re both fastidious, by the way.” He pointed to where she’d written  _ I’m a perfectionist (sometimes in a bad sense). _

“Oh, good—” She wrote down his name, hesitated. James had told her not to...but that was not her way. “Look, can we have a word after class?”

He avoided her gaze, but sighed as if this was what he’d expected all along. “Sure, Lily.”

It was both a relief and an added burst of nerves. “Right. Right, see you.” 

Lily took a detour through some Ravenclaws before meeting Mary and Doe. Most of her list had been filled — quicker than she had thought it would be. She supposed Weddle would make something of that. That they had more in common than they realised. Maybe he’d be right, too.

“Ah, Evans, this should be easy,” James said, stepping out of the crowd towards her. “We’re both clever, accomplished, fit—”

“Flattering,” Lily said drily, “or it would be if you weren’t complimenting yourself at the same time, and I have a feeling  _ that _ is the point of it.”

He grinned. “What’ve you got left?”

She scanned the page. Most of them were things James probably knew about her, but Lily felt oddly self-conscious. What was harmless enough to mention?

“Let’s just swap,” James said, interrupting her thoughts. “You’re taking forever, c’mon.”

“He said not to…”

“How’s it cheating? The point is to make it so that you make an effort to get to know people you don’t already know, and we do already know each other.”

“I suppose you’re right.” And she could not argue, not without suggesting she had an actual reason to keep him from seeing her list. Which she did not.

She took his notebook and squinted at his impatient scrawl.  _ I’m nosy, _ and so was Sara;  _ I’m devastatingly handsome, _ and so was Sirius (Lily rolled her eyes);  _ I’m funny _ , and so was Bridget Summeridge. Lily tried to focus on his remaining traits instead of guessing what he thought of hers.

“Got it,” he said. “You prefer to think for yourself.”

Lily read further. “And you...are an independent thinker. Sounds like something out of a horoscope.” She wrote her own name in his notebook.

“We Aries are born leaders too,” said James seriously. “D’you think Dumbledore reads the  _ Witch Weekly _ astrology column?”

“Well, I highly doubt—” She glanced up at him. “Do  _ you?” _

“I don’t know if Dumbledore reads the  _ Witch Weekly  _ astrology column, Evans. That’s why I asked you.”

“Funny. I meant do you read the  _ Witch Weekly _ astrology column.”

“You’ll have to wait until the next icebreaker to find out.”

“That’s odd, you don’t have  _ I’m insufferable _ on this list,” Lily said sweetly.

“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

She snorted a laugh — he smiled, as if he’d scored a point — and handed his notebook back to him. “This is all right so far, if a little tedious.”

James glanced around the room for a moment, nodding. “It could be worse, yeah.”

Later Lily would regret not taking his words as prophecy.

When they had settled into their seats again, Doe was ready to offer up a newspaper article. She had one on the upcoming Wizengamot vote, which would reconsider the ADA bill. She had another on ICW deliberations concerning He Who Must Not Be Named, by all accounts a very awkward conversation for the British delegation. But before she could so much as raise her hand, Amelia Bones had beaten her to it.

“I’ve got one, Professor,” she said, holding out a copy of the  _ Prophet. _ “It’s circled right there.”

“Excellent. Thanks, Bones. Mind telling everyone a quick summary of what you’ve picked? Unbiased, if you will.”

Amelia’s brows lifted ever so slightly, but she nodded, smoothing down her skirt. “It’s an opinion piece, actually. The author thinks schoolchildren like us shouldn’t be worrying about affairs beyond our reckoning. He was talking about the students at the Longbottom trial, I think. Anyway, he says we’re impressionable young minds, and so we can be too easily swayed to extreme positions. And sometimes we don’t recognise the biases in what we’re told, so adults ought to keep watch on how we’re getting on.”

“Fair a summary as any,” Weddle said. “Preliminary thoughts, anyone?”

Doe ground her teeth together. “I’ve read the article. I have some thoughts.”

_ Interlude: Thorpe, Again _

“He’s back.” Doe spoke the words with acute horror, staring at the editorial page of the  _ Prophet. _ “H-He’s back.”

“Who?” said Lily, looking quite concerned. 

“Thorpe, that’s who!” She flattened the newspaper down on the breakfast table. “And now he’s writing about us.”

“Us, as in…” Germaine spoke through a mouthful of eggs.

“As in the students who were at the Longbottom trial. I mean, to hear him talk you’d think we were throwing projectiles and breaking windows.” She scoffed. “He thinks we ought to be sheltered right out of politics. Well, some of us can’t  _ afford _ to be,  _ Marcel!” _

“Twat,” said Sirius helpfully from a few seats down. 

“He can’t stop anyone, Doe,” said Mary, shrugging.

“He can make sure loads of other adults think the same way as he does!”

“Oh, dear,” murmured Lily. 

“Crisis management, here we come,” said Germaine.

“—I don’t think he’s entirely without reason,” Amelia was in the middle of saying. “His intent’s all wrong, yes, but...we  _ are _ easily swayed.”

“I think you’re giving him a lot more credit than he deserves, Amelia,” Doe replied. “Part of the problem  _ is _ his intentions.”

“How do you know his intentions?” cut in Weddle.

“He’s not exactly subtle,” Doe said, the exasperation audible in her voice. “If you read it, you’ll see. The reason he doesn’t want young people to think about how unfair our world’s always been is he benefits from that unfairness. Not to mention, just because we’re learning doesn’t mean we’re  _ thick. _ You don’t come to form your own opinions without reading and talking and, oh, going to the first full-Wizengamot open trial in our lifetimes. 

“And that bunk about adults keeping an eye on us! Adults don’t need to surveil us when they’re likely the ones giving the biases we ought to be conscious of.”

“You mean like having rabble-rousing parents?” called Thalia Greengrass, examining her fingernails.

Lily sat up. “Seriously?” She wasn’t alone. Nearly everyone around Doe was glaring at Thalia. For her part Doe did not immediately bite back; she narrowed her eyes, and looked pointedly at the professor.

“Let’s not get personal,” Weddle said, throwing Thalia a warning glance. “And raise your hand before speaking, please. Any other—”

Lily’s hand shot up.

“Yes, Evans?” Weddle appeared rather relieved. Maybe he was counting on her to not stir the pot.

“But it  _ is _ personal,” she said, breathless with fervour. “How are we supposed to be objective when he’s talking about  _ us? _ I mean, he might as well be telling me directly that I don’t have a right to be concerned about what the Ministry does. I’m of age, and most people here are too. If this were an election year we’d be choosing a Minister. How can we be children and adults at the same time?”

“It’s fearmongering,” Michael Meadowes said, meeting Lily’s gaze. “He’s suggesting our parents ought to worry about us reading the paper instead of falling in with You-Know-Who’s lot.”

“Raise your hand,” Weddle said.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Next time. Yes, Aubrey?”

“Technically didn’t he say  _ extreme positions?” _ Bertram Aubrey said. “That sounds like he thinks joining up with the Death Eaters is bad too.”

_ “Too?” _ This came from Sirius. “Mate, there’s no one on the other side offing people.”

“Hand,” said Weddle.

Sirius, the picture of insincerity, lifted his hand and then let it drop back down to the bench with a thwack.

Doe put her hand up, waiting until Weddle had nodded in her direction before saying, “That’s Amelia’s generous summary. The author mentions the Longbottom trial by name and specifically talks about the dozen of-age students detained there. The phrase  _ Death Eater _ doesn’t appear once in that article. Nor, by the way, does  _ Lord Voldemort.” _

The hush that fell upon the classroom was so absolute, Lily could  _ feel _ the seconds ticking by. Doe cast a defiant look around, her gaze lingering on the clumps of Slytherins opposite her.

“What was that you were saying about biases?” Thalia said. Avery laughed. 

“Greengrass,  _ hand.” _

“You mean the biases littered all through Marcel Thorpe’s writing?” Doe shot back.

“Can’t convince someone who’s been brainwashed,” Sirius muttered, loudly enough for all to hear, “by Mummy and Daddy since day bloody one—”

Thalia looked delighted. “And what about you? Reborn a Potter, were you?  _ Blood traitor aspirant _ is really a new low—”

“Please,” interjected James. He was sitting back on the bench, but Lily knew better than to think that meant he was relaxed. There was a glittering edge to his sarcasm, something sharp and contemptuous in his eyes. “Mum’s had the blood traitor aspirant sweepstakes in the works for years, don’t blow our secret.”

Thalia was already opening her mouth to respond. Weddle was, too, no doubt to tell her to raise her hand before she spoke. But Lily had already jumped to her feet. Over the course of the conversation — if it could be called that — she had felt the colour rush to her cheeks, the bench’s splintering wood pressing into her clammy palms. Anything to focus more on the reality of her being there, sitting there, being a living, breathing person than the venom in Thalia’s voice.

“Enough,” she said through gritted teeth.  _ “Enough.” _

“Yes. We’re not here to discuss blood status,” Weddle said grimly.

Lily looked at him, incredulous. “Until we come back round to it, as we will every week. Because every single concern in wizarding Britain today comes down to the secrecy and greed and idiotic traditions about half of you have grown up with. And, you know what?” She snatched up her notebook and quill. “That’s for you to deal with. Not me, nor any Muggle-born student here.”

No one stopped her when she swept out of the room. It took Lily three corridors and one staircase to steady her breathing. She was not crying, which was a relief. She would probably have to go back to Weddle and apologise, and it would be embarrassing to do so all blotchy with tears. 

But the sheer furious energy that had propelled her this far died out with a sputter. Lily sighed and sat down on the next staircase, letting her eyes fall shut. The footsteps that sounded soon after did not come as a surprise in the slightest. 

“I don’t want to talk about it, James,” she mumbled.

“Do you want to talk about it  _ not _ with James?” 

Her eyes flew open as Remus sat beside her. 

“Oh.” Lily faltered. “I suppose I thought…”

“The Head Boy’s needed, in case of any more blowups,” said Remus. “Besides, you and I were supposed to talk after class anyway.”

Right. That. “I’m sorry,” she said in a rush. “I’m sorry to have overstepped, I should’ve just...done the schedule with James, and then everything would be loads less awkward—”

“You don’t have to be gentle,” said Remus.

She frowned. “Be gentle?”

“If you mean to keep away from me, I mean.” He looked as though he wanted to avoid her gaze, but forced himself to meet it anyway. Lily, nothing short of baffled, searched his warm eyes for some sort of clue about how to proceed. His posture was both defensive and resigned, as if to say  _ do your worst. _

“Why would,” she began, “no, that’s—  _ Remus, _ you only just told me you thought I was a good friend, why on earth would a good friend want to keep away from you?”

He squirmed. “Well, I...”

It dawned on her now that he had meant it more as a sort of goodbye than anything else. The residual anger and exhaustion squeezed into a tight knot of grief. She could have said a great deal — could have repeated what she’d told James last week — but she took his hand instead, holding it in both of hers. 

“You deserve better than everyone who’s treated you badly,” Lily said softly.

Now Remus did look away. For a moment she thought he would withdraw his hand, but he did not, and she held on. Lily could hear how shallow and uneven his breathing was. Still she held on, until they fell into the same quiet rhythm. The silence of it was not heavy but comfortable — the sort between friends who had said, for now, all they’d needed to.

“We ought to go back,” said Lily presently. “We’re probably missing the advice box, and what a delight that must be.”

Remus laughed. “He said we’d get to the advice box next week. He wanted to let us out early.”

“Do you think that was how he expected things to go?”

His amusement faded. “Well, I don’t think he predicted you walking out. The rest of it, though…” Remus shrugged. “Maybe they think it’s an outlet.”

“Like Duelling Club was supposed to be an outlet?”

He laced his hands together with a sigh. “Fair point.”

“Do you sometimes feel—” Lily sat up a little straighter, turning to face him. “Do you sometimes feel we’re just being pushed along, and that no matter how we fight back something explosive and awful is going to happen?”

“Yes,” he admitted quietly. “But.”

She knew what he meant. “But we have to fight anyway,” she murmured. “In whatever way we can.”

Lily stood and brushed down her robes. The longer she sat there the less likely she was to go find Weddle before he left the classroom. 

“Is everyone going back to the common room?”

Remus nodded.

“I’ll catch up with you later, then.”

He rose too. “Or I could keep you company, there and back.”

Her first instinct was to say no, that she would be all right on her own. But Lily realised she did not want to be alone. So she smiled her acquiescence. “You  _ are _ a good friend.”

* * *

_ iv. The Next Evening _

“And you’ve been listening to me this whole time,” said Michael. 

“Yes,” said Doe. 

“Really?”

“Mmhmm.”

“So you agree that the Fountain of Fair Fortune is in the fifth floor boys’ toilet.”

“Yes. Wait; what?”

He laughed. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying. Are you sure you’re all right?”

Doe sighed, pushing away her copy of Beedle. It was difficult not to think of the fiasco that had been Weddle’s class — Thalia bloody Greengrass, Lily leaving, discomfort writ large on everyone’s faces. 

“It’s about Thorpe, isn’t it?” Michael said. 

She wondered if her thoughts were written in neon above her head. “I shouldn’t let him get to me. I know.” 

Doe wasn’t sure what it was about the man specifically — maybe he was simply an easy target for her annoyance. She was well aware that he wasn’t the only one who thought the way he did. Maybe the vague connection, through their old professor, made him seem closer than most other adult sceptics. Maybe it was just that in his first column back, he had taken a very personal swing.

_ If you ask me, _ he’d written,  _ the illicit broadcast by a Hogwarts student from the trial is not a myth but an exaggeration. Who can say what this poor student was made to do, risking his or her safety inside the Ministry’s detention rooms? Who can say what this student really thinks? Some celebrate the so-called voice as a sign of young people’s rising awareness of current affairs. I remain unconvinced. _

The faux concern was the worst of it. As if he cared, really! Doe had to forcibly remind herself that he knew nothing about her, and so his opinion about her actions could not, should not matter.

“Well, easier said than done,” said Michael, echoing her sigh. “Looks like the  _ Prophet _ likes him too much to let him go forever.”

“Or he came back to writing his drivel the moment he’d taken off the appropriate family time.” Doe grimaced. “I can’t fathom it. How… _ cowardly _ do you have to be, publicly taking up the cause of people who’ve hurt your family?” 

“Far be it from me to defend him, but maybe that’s why.”

She scoffed. Michael held out a placating hand. 

“You assume that everyone’s courageous, or good. Marcel Thorpe just...isn’t. And he’s an adult, I know that, so he ought to better…” He shook his head. “But I feel sorry for him.”

She considered this a moment. Michael wasn’t far off the mark; normally she would have had some level of compassion, too, for Thorpe Sr.’s plight, but the previous day’s digs still smarted.  _ Rabble-rousing parents, my arse. _

“I just wish I could tell him he’s wrong. That he’s out of touch, and if he actually spoke to a young person he’d realise we have real, sensible reasons for caring about what’s going on in the world.” 

Michael gave her a funny look. “But...you can.”

“I can, what, knock on his door and shout at him until I’m hauled off by MLEP?” Doe said wryly.

“You can write a letter to the editor. Or even a proper editorial.” He shrugged. “I mean, why not? You’ve clearly got things to say.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She couldn’t say she hadn’t thought of it before...but there had always been two very good reasons not to. They had only become more significant after the summer’s events. 

One, she did not want to say anything that jeopardised her parents’ work. Oh, they would have encouraged her to speak her mind, without a doubt, but when it came to statements everyone could read and tie back to her family, Doe preferred to exercise caution. Anything she wanted to say, she would have to run by them — and it simply seemed like too much trouble, given the second reason.

She had to be an Auror, after all. And if she was going to be an Auror, she could not seem too political, lest the program find a reason to deny her acceptance. If the price of saying what she believed was being unable to tangibly, seriously help the fight against the Dark Arts, she would swallow her words and her pride. 

When she met Michael’s gaze again, she searched for a way to distil those thoughts into something that made sense — and would not diminish his respect for her.

“I couldn’t— The Auror program, for one, they’d have something to say about it,” she began. 

In the heartbeat of hesitation before she spoke again, Michael said, “So just do it anonymously.”

“What?”

“Write an anonymous editorial. They publish those, sometimes. And if you’re a student, the  _ Prophet _ might feel that’s a good enough reason to respect your privacy.”

“Oh,” was all she managed. She had always felt comfortable wearing her opinions on her sleeve, for everyone to see. But now, keeping her name out of the papers was a logical necessity, not an instance of cowardice. He was right, Doe realised. She could do it.

“It’s not like you don’t have experience being anonymous anyway,” Michael went on.

For a moment, she just stared at him, her mouth in a small  _ o. _ “What does that mean?” she said, when she’d found her voice again.

He smiled. “Come off it, Dorcas. You’re the one who got that message out, aren’t you? At the trial.”

“But when I told the others I didn’t know who it was, you never…”

“I thought if you wanted to keep it a secret, you had a decent reason. At least, I didn’t want to tell everyone if you didn’t.”

She shook her head, trying to cast off her daze. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so surprised. Like so many people had said to her since, it was only a process of elimination. Eventually someone would have guessed, and someone who knew her might have felt confident about that assumption.

“How long have you suspected?” she said, pushing her chair back so she could look at him properly.

“Well, I wondered — I remembered the radio show you listen to, the political one, but it was never public what station the broadcast appeared on. It was just a guess. But yesterday, when you reacted so strongly to the Thorpe editorial…”

“That’s the way I react to all of his editorials,” Doe said with a smile.

He inclined his head towards her, conceding. “Still. I think that gives you a great excuse to write back. I mean, he talks about you.”

“He does,” she allowed. The low murmur of conversation in the library had faded — or perhaps the rush of her own blood in her ears had overtaken it. She glanced at her half-finished Ancient Runes homework, then back at Michael. “Do you really think I should?”

He had his lips pressed together, like he was trying to contain a full-blown grin. “If there’s anyone who can take him down a notch, it’s you.”

Her smile widened. “I think...I think I’m going to do it, then.”

“I can’t wait to see it in the paper.”

“Michael?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you read it over? Before I send it off, I mean. I’d want someone else to tell me I don’t sound batty.”

He was nodding before she’d finished speaking. “I’d be happy to. But, Dorcas?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not batty.”

She rolled her eyes fondly. “Save it for after you read the thing.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i must be a clown, because i literally put off rewriting a scene for two weeks and then decided it was actually pretty good the way it was
> 
> not much to say but thank you all as always and i really do have a bonus scene planned out so follow me @thequibblah on tumblr so you don't miss it!
> 
> xoxo quibblah


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